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Little People of the Dust 








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Jimmie Pulled Out the Pearls and Held them up Joyfully 



Little People 
of the Dust 

A NOVEL 



THE PILGRIM PRESS 

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 


V. 


COPYRIGHT, 1913 
BY LUTHER H. CARY 



« 


THB»PLIMPTON«PRESS 
NORWOOD* MASS* U»S*A 


©CI.A358129 


TO 

MY WIFE 

WHOSE LIFE HAS BEEN MY 
INSPIRATION 



ILLUSTRATIONS 


Jimmie pulled out the pearls and held them 

up joyfully Frontispiece 

FACING 

PAGE 

“He didn’t give me nothin’. He just put these 

freckles on my face an’ pretty near ruined me” . 86 


“Now you jes* watch that spring an’ see what hap- 
pens” 


128 


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Little People of the Dust 



LITTLE PEOPLE OF 
THE DUST 

CHAPTER I 



iHE two of them sat on a great gray rock 


that stood not far from the upper edge of 


the Beaver Creek dump ; both diminutive 
in size and years ; both grimy and dust-sifted, but 
both happy, as any young, growing life is happy 
in spite of inharmonious surroundings. 

She was nearly eight and so delicately built 
from her shell-like ears to her bare stubby toes, as 
to seem ethereal and unreal. Her unrestrained 
hair, beautifully golden with the sun on it, and 
her eyes, so blue that there seemed a bit of the sky 
in them, spoke, as plainly as words, her unfitness 
for her present environment. 

He was nine and his face was wizened and old: 
looking and freckled, and his gray, restless eyes 
had that heart-touching something in their gen- 
eral appeal that is found so often in the faces of 
the little people of the dust. 

At their feet, covering the lower edge of 
the shelving rock and the ground immediately 


3 


4 Little People of the Dust 

around, were pigeons of slate blue and white that 
jostled, and crawled over each other’s backs to 
get at the little morsels of bread which the two 
children were throwing down to them with spar- 
ing hands. 

One, a beautiful dun-colored bird, with erect 
bearing and puffing neck, was strutting and coo- 
ing softly at the very side of the little girl and 
only ducked his iridescent head a little when she 
reached out her small brown hand to smooth his 
feathers. 

Suddenly a shadow of huge, outspread pinions 
moved on the gray floor of the dump and, as 
though on one wing, the pigeons rose with a great 
whir and rustling and soared away in a wide arc 
towards the stupendous uplift of the red brick 
walls of a storage plant. 

The boy raised his head. ‘Tt’s Billie,” he cried, 
petulantly. “He always comes when he sees the 
pigeons. Go away!” He raised his hand and 
shook it frantically but the old crow that had 
settled on the ground quite near only cocked his 
wise head on one side, and flxed his beady eyes 
upon the two in a look of earnest inquiry. 

“There!” cried the boy impatiently, “take it 
and go away!” As he spoke he threw a piece of 
bread, of a larger size than the crumbs they had 
been distributing to the pigeons, some distance in 
front of the intruder. 


Little People of the Dust 5 

With deliberate dignity, the old crow, a bird 
of unusual size even for crows, lifted one foot 
slowly after the other and approached the 
morsel which all the time he pretended not to 
see. 

The little girl was growing impatient. “Shoo 
she cried, as she saw the pigeons wheeling back in 
a dense cloud. The crow made a little hop for- 
ward, picked up the bread and noiselessly flap- 
ping his black wings made otF with it towards a 
gnarled, old apple tree some distance away. 

“Billie’s always got to have the largest piece,” 
complained Millie, “an’ he doesn’t do a thing 
all day but sit on that old tree an’ watch every- 
thin’. He ain’t like them. They’re pretty an’ 
fly so nice.” 

As she spoke, in a great flutter of wings the 
pigeons dropped lightly back in place and re- 
newed the task of picking up the few remaining 
crumbs. 

“Black Peter,” began the boy, “says Billie 
knows more’n most men an’ that he’s been here 
in the dump longer’n we’ve been born.” 

“But he never growed as big as us, did he, 
Jimmie?” asked Millie, looking up at him with 
a smile. 

“No, but he’s the bigges’ crow Black Peter 
says he ever seen. He can fight rats an’ some- 
times he kills ’em an’ eats ’em.” 


6 


Little People of the Dust 

“Do you think he’d fight us?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Jimmie, “but I 
guess we’d better give ’m his big piece an’ let ’m 
fly away with it peaceable. I don’t like fightin’ 
anyway, for when pop an’ ma fight I cry.” 

The last crumb gone, the pigeons began a 
queer promenading around, lifting their pink 
feet high and arching their necks and cooing 
and puffing and bowing to each other as though 
they were really holding a grand reception; 
then, with one accord, and a great noise of wings, 
they were off in a cloud to another part of the 
wide dump. 

A stiff wind had sprung up from the west and 
yellow-brown clouds of dust and fine ashes were 
drifting lazily before it over the forty-five acres 
on which the vast dump had spread its mantle 
of blight and devastation. To the right, a lit- 
tle beyond the long, partially demolished rail 
fence, were two small cottages that crouched 
like demure mice under the protection of a wide- 
spreading willow tree. To the left, lifted the stu- 
pendous walls of a great storage plant in an 
ascent of dull red brick so sheer and high that it 
produced a feeling of awe in the beholder. 

In front of the children, but some little dis- 
tance away, was the paper-strewn limit of the 
dump in that direction, its bare outline broken by 
the twisted form of an old apple tree, upon 


Little People of the Dust 7 

which, darkly silhouetted against the sky, sat Bil- 
lie, the old crow. 

Behind, extended the unbroken levelness of 
vacant, rubbish-strewn land to the huddled con- 
fines of the distant city. 

The spot the dump now occupied had once 
been the bed of a slowly moving creek, but the 
very creek itself had been filled in and only a 
black pool, on which various tin cans and pieces 
of wood now floated, and a long ravine, remained 
to mark its unseen, but constant, flow. 

A man was threading his way across the sur- 
face of the dump, turning his head sideways now 
and then to avoid the full force of the dust- 
clouds that swirled around him. As he ap- 
proached the children and the great rock, he was 
seen to be a typical scavenger; one of those crea- 
tures of the dust and dirt, who win a precarious 
living by sorting out and storing aw^y for future 
sale the various articles of small value that the 
city, in its recklessness or carelessness, has cast 
aside. 

He was short-statured, even squat, with 
slightly bowed legs encased in baggy trousers 
which the wind apexed over his shins as he 
walked. His old coat, gray with the dust of 
innumerable ash-heaps, was held close around his 
neck by a huge safety-pin, for the day was one 
in early April, and the air was chill; his heavily 


8 Little People of the Dust 

bearded face was dark and even forbidding in 
its general aspect, and was rendered doubly re- 
pulsive by the redness of the inflamed eyelids, 
which, through long years of habit, were half 
closed upon the dark eyes beneath. 

He held a huge bunch of the rarest and most 
beautiful orchids and roses in his right hand, 
and, as he approached the children, he held them 
up with a hearty smile of delight. 

The little girl leaped to her feet at the sight 
and stood with outstretched hands. “Oh, Black 
Peter, she did come, didn’t she?” 

“Yes,” he answered, “I ain’t never knowed her 
to fail on the sixteenth of the month.” 

He placed the flowers in the little girl’s arms 
and, leaning over, received the kiss her pouting 
lips bestowed upon his cheek. 

“When did she come?” asked the boy. 

Black Peter seated himself beside the two on 
the rock. “She ain’t never had no regular time,” 
he said slowly, “an’ no regular place. She jes’ 
snooped around same as she has done for the last 
four years. I was jes’ closin’ up the shack last 
night when I see somethin’ white a-movin’ away 
across the dump near the old apple tree yonder. 
I knowed it was her, so I went over careful- 
like, followin’ the hollow over there, and watched 
her. I don’t jes’ like to pry into other people’s 
business, but it’s kinder spooky to see a woman 


9 


Little People of the Dust 

nosin’ around this place at night. Well, she jes’ 
came runnin’ into the dump as though she was 
scared to death an’, when she was right over 
there, she kneeled down by an ash-heap an’ 
seemed to pray, an’ then she put the posies down 
on top o’ the heap as though she thought it was 
a grave. I was close enough so’s I could hear 
her sobbin’ as she got up an’ went away.” 

The faces of the children were very set and 
wore a half-f lightened look as they listened. 

“What — what do you suppose she comes for. 
Black Peter?” asked the little girl, slipping her 
hand into his as though for protection. 

“Comes for? You wouldn’t understand if I 
told you, little one, an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to tell 
you.” 

He turned to her as though to change the sub- 
ject, “Did your mother give you that medicine 
I brought?” 

Millie shook her golden curls, “It was aw- 
ful bitter.” 

“I like it,” piped in Jimmie. 

“You like it?” Black Peter laughed loudly: 
“You ain’t got a cough, what are you takin’ it 
for?” 

“Millie said she wouldn’t take it ’ithout me, 
so I took it, too, ’cause I knowed you wanted her 
to get well.” 

“You’re a good boy,” commented the man. 


10 


Little People of the Dust 

“You’ve always been a good boy to Millie. By 
Jinks! I forget,” he cried, suddenly springing 
up, his whole manner changing to one of ani- 
mation. “I found the grandest, the most won- 
derful book to-day, leastways, me’n Billie found 
it.” 

“Where is it?” shouted the children in unison. 

“It’s over there at the shack. Come on, we’ll 
go get it. It’s all about the Sarah desert an’ 
has the grandest pictures you ever see.” 

The three trooped off at once and approached 
a low, irregularly shaped hut, whose sides and 
sloping roof were encased in an armor of old tin ; 
a thousand pieces, perhaps, drawn from the in- 
exhaustible supply of the dump round about. 
In some places the tin, quite new, reflected a dis- 
torted image of the sun, and in others, where the 
rain and weather had done their work, it showed 
rust-red and even black, the whole presenting 
a singularly mottled yet not altogether ugly ap- 
pearance. A single door, so low that a man of 
medium height must have stooped to enter it, 
broke the uniformity of the long side. 

“That Billie,” confided the man, “is the durn- 
dest crow I ever see, an’ the knowin’est. What 
do you think? I see him a-stickin’ in his head 
an’ jumpin’ back an’ flappin’ his wings an’ tug- 
gin’ an’ pullin’ fit to kill. ‘What’s he got now?’ 
says I. T guess I’ll see.’ So over I goes an’ 


11 


Little People of the Dust 

he jes’ stands up an’ looks at me saucy an’ then 
walks oiF a little with them black, beady eyes o’ 
his watchin’ me over his shoulder. Well, sir, he 
was pullin’ the leather bindin’ right ofF’n a big 
book. I suppose the hungry cuss was a-goin’ to 
eat it. He’s the durndest crow for eatin’ 
things. Why, I seen him a-peckin’ all day at an 
old shoe, but I never knowed he had a likin’ for 
books. Jes’ out o’ curiosity I pulled the book 
out o’ the rubbish, an’ one o’ its covers flopped 
back an’ I found myself lookin’ into the grandest 
picture. ‘Jes’ the thing for the kiddies,’ sez 
I, ‘they’ll like this,’ so I laid it aside where that 
crow couldn’t get it. Now, ain’t that Billie the 
durndest bird?” 

They had arrived by now at the scene of Black 
Peter’s operation, and the wonderful book, which 
was destined to play such a part in making the 
dump an enjoyable place in which to live, was 
brought forth from within the hut and began its 
work of redemption. 

In precisely the same way that some precious 
document, its characters engraved in stone or 
scratched on sun-dried clay, has come up out of 
the sands of the desert to gladden the eyes of 
the searchers after antiquities, so came this won- 
derful book out of the old dump, another gift 
to the little dwellers thereon, from its ugly but 
bounteous heart. 


12 


Little People of the Dust 

It was faded and torn and the gilt had nearly 
all worn away from its edges and the head of 
the great sphinx which looked out at them from 
the cover was as badly worn and haggard as the 
original. 

It was the pictures that fascinated the two 
pairs of eyes peering in at them and wove a mys- 
terious spell that was destined to influence more 
lives than two. 

The children ran swiftly back to the gray, 
cleft rock where in the shelter of its sunlit side 
it was warm and cozy, and it was far towards 
noon when they shut the covers on the wonders 
within, and sat looking out over the acres of 
waste before them. 

“It seems to me,” said little Millie, as she 
closed her eyes, “I can just see the desert now. 
There’s hills an’ hills of yellow sand with sharp 
edges, an’ camels goin’ slowly along their sides, 
an’ the great river an’ the pyramids. I can just 
see them pyramids as plain as day. Can you 
see’m, Jimmie?” 

“Nope!” said Jimmie. “I can’t never see 
nothin’ unless my eyes is lookin’ at it.” 

“Close your eyes tight,” said Millie. 
“Tighter ! Tighter !” 

Little Jimmie’s mouth was screwed up and 
his nose wrinkled in his effort at obedience. 


Little People of the Dust 13 

“Now, can’t you see’m; the long snaky river 
an’ the pyramids?” 

“Nope,” answered the boy dolefully, “I can’t 
never see nothin’, ’cept dust an’ smoke an’ brown 
spots.” He opened his eyes and stared across 
the waste before him. “Seems to me I can see 
more desert a-lookin’ at this dump than I can 
when my eyes is closed. If them pavin’ stones 
was only shaped like a pyramid, I think I could 
make ’em look like one in my head.” 

Suddenly Millie jumped down and stood be- 
fore him with clasped hands and excited blue 
eyes. “I’ll tell you,” she cried, “let’s make the 
old dump a desert just like the wonderful book 
says. Won’t it be fun? An’ so’s you can see 
things, too, we’ll go over there an’ make them 
pavin’ blocks into a real pyramid of Cheops like 
the book gives a picture of.” 

With the eager fascination of youth, they 
toiled all that afternoon, under the grave and 
dubious scrutiny of Billie who oversaw the job 
from the gnarled apple tree on the desert’s rim, 
and they were busily engaged, lifting and trans- 
porting the heavy stones, when Black Peter, 
after finishing his day’s sorting, came upon them. 

“Run along home now,” he cried, when he had 
been told of the great resolve, “an’ maybe a good 
spirit will come in the night an’ finish the job.” 


14 Little People of the Dust 

The good spirit did come and it toiled long 
after it should have been in bed in the tin- 
covered shack, and when the sun broke over the 
desert the day following, its first beams lit up 
the ragged sides of a very good replica of the 
original pyramid upon which even then its last 
beam was falling. 


CHAPrER II 


T he two tribes met by mutual agreement 
next morning for a little trip into the 
desert as far as the pyramid before Jim- 
mie was compelled by an inexorable law to 
spend the delightful morning hours in a stupe- 
fying classroom. 

Under Millie’s arm was the wonderful book, 
and the boy could not resist pulling open the 
covers a wee bit for a peep at the mysteries 
within. There had been books found in the des- 
ert before, over which their young eyes had 
pored with delight and wonder, but never a book 
like this, so full of witchery and suggestive 
charm. Perhaps it was the strange, though to 
them incomprehensible likeness, that existed be- 
tween the pictured desert their eyes feasted on, 
and the real every-day desert over which their 
young feet daily passed. Whatever the cause, 
the book presented to the vivid imagination of 
the children a means of living out a dream to 
complete fulfillment. It was like playing house, 
or riding a broom-stick horse, only, in addition to 
the charm which dreaming lends to everything 
it touches, this game had the added allurement 
of a journey into a far and wonderful land. 


l6 Little People of the Dust 

They were chattering merrily of the things 
they would do as they stooped to crawl under 
the old wooden rail of the decrepit fence, when 
a gaunt, yellow cat sneaked out of the brush 
nearby and started leisurely across the broad 
acres of the desert. 

‘Tf Billie only sees ’m,” whispered Jimmie, 
with a snicker. Two pairs of eyes were trained 
on the gnarled, old apple tree which stretched 
up its twisted arms with an air of insufferable 
ennui and seemed forever about to give vent to 
one great, satisfying yawn; there, sure enough, 
as he always was at that time of day, and nearly 
every other time of day for that matter, perched 
Billie, reduced by the distance, to a mere bundle 
of blackness. 

The cat by now had got well out into the des- 
ert, and even as they watched, the blackness 
which was Billie, moved and swelled, and sud- 
denly dropped right out of the tree, skimmed 
close to the ground, then rose on a long incline. 

“He’s seen ’im,” yelled Jimmie. “He’s seen 
’im. Watch! watch ’im now! Oh, Golly!” 

The powerful sweep of Billie’s wings had 
brought him up in a trice and he poised for a 
second over the slinking animal beneath him, 
which, as though conscious of danger from 
above, lifted his head and kept a wary eye aloft 
as he padded silently along. Then the moment 


17 


Little People of the Dust 

that always brought delight to the boy’s heart 
came. With a loud “caw, caw” of mingled 
rage and defiance, Billie slid down like a black 
Nemesis out of the air, his long, powerful claws 
outstretched like a hawk’s talons. Before the 
bewildered cat could turn to defend himself he 
was bowled over bodily by the impact of the 
crow’s body and then buffeted furiously by the 
black, descending wings. With a snarl of rage, 
the animal turned on his back and bit furiously 
at his assailant, but Billie slid safely away with 
a “caw, caw,” that, this time, was filled with a 
perceptible note of triumph. 

The cat slowly regained his feet and stood 
watching his black foe with malignant eyes and 
chattering lower jaw. 

“There he comes again!” cried Millie. “He’ll 
chase ’im this time.” 

It was true, Billie was returning. The proud 
victor of a hundred battles with cats and dogs 
and gray, gaunt rats, had only fought the first 
skirmish. His “caw, caw” was filled again with 
defiance as he circled nearer. The cat had be- 
gun to slink on his way once more when that 
sound reached him. He paused, then with flat- 
tened ears and wide-open, snarling mouth, set- 
tled back upon his haunches to await the impact 
that he saw impended. 

Round and round, his great black wing almost 


i8 Little People of the Dust 

touching the cat’s head, swept the crow, keep- 
ing his quarry moving with incredible speed in 
frantic efforts to present teeth and claws to the 
attack. The opening sought for came at last, 
as it always did where Billie was concerned, and 
the crow, with a high-pitched “caw,” struck his 
adversary with full weight, dug his claws into 
the yielding back, and drove his powerful beak 
repeatedly at the snarling head with the rapid- 
ity of a steam drill. A long yowl of terror 
burst from the cat. The crow’s hold loosened 
and he rose heavily and circled for another on- 
slaught, but the fight was over. Emitting wild 
screeches at every jump, the animal sped away 
towards the shelter of some low bushes, while 
Billie followed, flying low and cawing in happy 
triumph. 

“He always does it,” yelled Jimmie. “Black 
Peter says he could lick a wild-cat if he tried.” 

“He couldn’t lick an elephant,” answered Mil- 
lie, who never had looked on Billie with any de- 
cided favor. 

“He could keep him a-humpin’, anyways, I 
bet,” rejoined Jimmie, to whom the crow rep- 
resented the acme of pluck and sagacity. 

Meanwhile, his enemy disposed of, Billie had 
returned to his polished perch on the gnarled, old 
apple tree, where he raised his head and cawed 
with a downward movement of his whole body. 


Little People of the Dust 19 

He was a wise old bird, as Black Peter had 
once told the children, and had been the guardian 
spirit of the dump since the day when it re- 
ceived its first load of rubbish. He was solitary 
and never known to have mated, though every 
summer members of his kind came in from the 
surrounding groves. Perhaps he had been dis- 
appointed in love, or had committed some unpar- 
donable sin and been punished by perpetual 
banishment, or, as is more likely, he may have 
been possessed of such an ungovernable temper 
that no law-abiding lady-crow could live with 
him. 

Whatever the cause, the fact remains, that 
summer and winter his black wings were to be 
seen fanning the air over the desert and his 
hoarse caw heard, resounding with sharp, bark- 
ing resonance from the gnarled, old apple tree. 
Like a jealous guardian of an estate, he never 
suffered a living thing, save human beings and 
animals under their personal care, to so much 
as set foot upon his vast domain. 

Perhaps in their presence he saw a prospec- 
tive attack upon his limited food supply, or he 
may simply have felt a violent rage against them 
for so having presumed upon his manifest 
rights. 

In any case, scenes such as the one just de- 
scribed were daily occurrences on the desert and 


20 


Little People of the Dust 

added not a little spice to the life the children 
led thereon. 

But, though Billie was violent in resenting in- 
trusion upon his acquired rights, he was not 
altogether lacking in the finer sentiments of life, 
for he had a spirit that dearly loved bright, beau- 
tiful objects, and his keen, beady eyes were for- 
ever on the watch for such as caught his fancy. 
There never was a glitter or gleam on the whole 
desert that Billie did not find time to investigate, 
and the articles that particularly suited him he 
seized in his bill and carried away to a secret 
hiding-place of his own. A stray bit of cloth, 
particularly of a bright red or scarlet color, was 
sure to bring him down from his perch, and per- 
haps, that he might keep such as these where his 
eye could delight in their beauty, he contented 
himself with hanging them over the twigs of 
the apple tree, where they fluttered, until, loos- 
ened by the wind, the earth claimed them once 
more. As though wearied of their charms, he 
never restored them to their twigs again, and 
so the ground around the tree came, in time, to 
be littered with their many-hued remains. 

When the children, their faces still bright with 
the excitement of Billie’s encounter with the cat, 
arrived at the pyramid of Cheops, which the 
night before had been left in a partially com- 
pleted condition, their eyes took on a new bril- 


21 


Little People of the Dust 

liancy at the sight of the noble monument that 
stood before them. 

“Goody! Goody! Goody!” cried Millie, 
dancing on her tip-toes and clapping her hands 
as hard as the book under her arm would per- 
mit. “It’s all done!” 

Jimmie could only gaze at its noble lines with 
eyes that took in every detail of its structure. 

“I wonder who done it?” he asked dryly. 
“Does it look like the real one?” 

Millie closed her eyes tightly. “Yep,” she 
laughed, “just like it. Just ezactly like it.” 

“Aw! I don’t mean that way. Look in the 
hook!” cried the boy, and he dragged the vol- 
ume from under her arm. 

Yes, there was a wonderful resemblance; the 
paving blocks certainly did look like the mas- 
sive stones in the original and they were piled 
very correctly, indeed, as the keen little eyes 
noticed. 

“It’s big enough so we can climb on it, too, 
just like the lady an’ man in the picture.” Mil- 
lie’s voice was triumphant in its joy. 

“I can see the pyramid of Cheops now,” said 
Jimmie, “ ’cause my real two eyes can look at 
it, but I can’t never see an oasis, or nothin’ of 
that sort, ’cause I ain’t like you.” 

For a moment Millie regarded him with si- 
lent sorrow. The thought that he couldn’t fol- 


22 


Little People of the Dust 

low her vivid fancy into the realms of the unreal 
had always been a source of deep regret to her 
tender little heart and a drawback to the com- 
plete enjoyment of her own dreams. 

“I s’pose, then,” she said slowly, “we’ll just 
have to have a wasis, ’cause there won’t be no fun 
if you can’t see it with me.” 

Black Peter had come up and had overheard 
the last words. 

“Jimmie can’t see an oasis, eh?” 

“Nope! I can’t never see nothin’ what ain’t 
before my eyes,” he answered dolefully. 

“Well, well, that’s too bad.” The man squat- 
ted before the two with a tender warmth in the 
inflamed eyes he fixed upon them. “But, come 
to think of it, I can’t see things myself unless 
they’re right under my tarnation nose, and even 
then I miss ’m sometimes.” 

“Couldn’t we have a wasis. Black Peter?” 

The man screwed up his face and pretended 
to do some heavy thinking. 

“I don’t — see — why — not,” he answered 
slowly. “There’s plenty o’ good black dirt over 
there under the apple tree, if Billie ’ll let you 
have it, an’ we could jes’ naturally cart the 
ashes away from around this here rock an’ I 
don’t doubt we’d have a sure ’nough oasis in time 
which even Jimmie an’ me could see, eh?” 

Just then a dark shadow floated over the 


23 


Little People of the Dust 

ground beside them. They all looked up quickly 
to see Billie making a sweep downward to where 
something glittered out of a fresh heap of rub- 
bish. 

He alighted near it, surveyed it with his head 
cocked first on one side, then on the other; 
walked slowly around it and then growing bolder 
pecked at it, at first diffidently, then with grow- 
ing courage. 

Whatever it was, he evidently regarded it of 
value, for he took it in his beak and flapped away 
in a long sweep, alighting somewhere in the wil- 
lows beyond the black pool. 

“My! My! If I only had eyes like him,” 
sa;id Black Peter. “He can see a piece o’ isin- 
glass clear across the dump.” 

“Whatever does he do with things. Black 
Peter?” asked Millie. 

“Do with ’em? Oh, he jes’ carries ’em over 
there an’ puts ’em in his safe.” 

“Where’s his safe?” 

“Well, I don’t ezactly know,” answered the 
man, “but it’s somewhere in that apple tree. 
Don’t you ever try to find it now, neither one of 
you.” He shook his long, grimy finger warningly. 

“Would Billie peck us?” asked Jimmie. 

“Would he? Well, I tried it once when 
someone told me crows found diamonds an’ 
pearls an’ things an’ hid ’em away. I tried it 


24 Little People of the Dust 

an’ jes’ when I was clomb up in the tree, back 
comes Billie like a streak o’ lightnin’ an’ he pecks 
me in the cheek, there’s the scar yet, an’ hits 
me in the face so hard with his big wings that 
I jes’ dropped right out o’ the tree. I never 
thought a bird could fight like that. No, sir. 
You bet I’ll never go treasure-huntin’ again in 
Billie’s tree. There he is now, the old rogue, 
a-actin’ as unconcerned as though he hadn’t jes’ 
found somethin’. Now you watch. In about 
half an hour he’ll mosey back into them willows 
and fetch his piece of glass, or whatever it is, an’ 
hide it in his safe. Oh, he’s a wise old bird, that 
fellow, an’ him an’ me sure likes each other. 
We’re jes’ like old pals, belonging to the same 
club an’ having the same qualifications. No 
home, an’ both black, an’,” he patted Millie’s 
cheek affectionately, “both a-lovin’ a little girl 
with golden hair an’ blue eyes.” 

“Don’t you an’ Billie love me, too?” cried 
Jimmie complainingly. 

“Do we? Well, I guess yes, but you see 
there’s somethin’ me an’ Billie done for her, what 
we never had the chance to do for you. Yes, 
me ’n Billie done it. No, no,” he raised his hand 
at the children’s eager question. “I don’t sup- 
pose I oughter mention that much, but I gets 
kinder crazy to talk once in a while. I won’t 
never tell you what it was, so don’t ask.” 


CHAPTER III 


L ittle Jimmie rose earlier than usual 
next morning, for his soul was full of the 
oasis that was to be, and, though his brain 
could not conjure up the visions of its loveliness 
that Millie basked in, still he was full of confi- 
dent trust that it would be very lovely, indeed, 
and very desirable. Even in those early years, 
the sweet, refining influence of the little girl was 
a potent force in his daily life, which constant 
companionship served to strengthen and in- 
tensify. 

He rattled his old scuttle as he trotted along, 
and, though he cast longing eyes in the direction 
of the gray, cleft rock, he resolutely moved di- 
agonally away from it, for the scuttle on his 
arm must be filled with the pieces of unburned 
coal, picked from the thousand little heaps that 
dotted the desert’s face. It was his regular 
daily task, to be accomplished at the expense 
of everything else; a task which had, long ago, 
made his little fingers stubby and calloused, and 
his hands the despair and horror of his argus- 
eyed teacher. 

He was soon busily at work and the little 
^5 


26 Little People of the Dust 

sharp-pointed pieces of unburned coal tinkled 
softly, with brisk precision, as the scuttle slowly 
filled. 

At last, his job accomplished, he was carrying 
the heavy load homeward, with many rests on 
the way, when his eye beheld a carriage drive 
swiftly up to the main entrance of the dump, 
and stop. Four men got out and walked swiftly 
in his direction. 

As Jimmie stooped to pick up his scuttle to 
make another laborious gain on the distance still 
before him, one of the men, clad in a blue uni- 
form and wearing buttons that gleamed in the 
early sun, beckoned to him imperatively. When 
he came up, Jimmie saw he was very large and 
stern-looking and had a great, shiny, silver badge 
on the left side of the breast of his long coat. 

“Do you live around here?” he questioned 
kindly, as he noted the frightened look in Jim- 
mie’s eyes. 

The boy glanced timidly at his scuttle full of 
coal. “I didn’t think it was wrong to take it,” 
he whimpered. 

“Take what? The coal? Ha! Ha!” The 
big officer laughed so merrily that Jimmie smiled 
through his tears. 

“Well, I guess not. Take all you can get. 
Where do you live?” 


Little People of the Dust 27 

“Over there!” said Jimmie, pointing to the 
nearer of the two little cottages. 

“And I suppose you go about in the dump a 
great deal?” 

“Yessir, every day.” 

“And did you see a string of pretty beads 
lately, with a stone all full of little fires at the 
end of it?” 

Jimmie’s eyes grew large with wonder. 

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. 

“You’re sure now?” 

The eyes that bent on him were very stern 
and accusing. 

“I never seen it,” said Jimmie stoutly, though 
his lip trembled. 

“Did the old fellow over there, — what’s his 
name now?” The officer snapped his fingers as 
though to help his memory. 

“Black Peter?” asked Jimmie. 

“That’s it. Black Peter! Did he find any- 
thing lately?” 

“He’s always findin’ things,” said Jimmie 
brightly, thinking that sorue reflection was be- 
ing cast on his friend’s ability. 

“What did he find?” eagerly interrupted a sec- 
ond man, a clean-shaven, well-kept individual 
who drew his coat back as the boy brushed 
against it. 


28 


Little People of the Dust 

“Him? Oh, he found Millie’s bed an’ our old 
boiler an’ a doll-buggy for Millie an’ the wonder- 
ful book an’ — ” 

“That’s enough. That’s enough,” broke in 
the man who had asked the question. “Now, 
look here, my boy — ” He was shaking a warn- 
ing finger under Jimmie’s nose, when the offi- 
cer laid his hand on his arm: 

“That’s not right, Warren. Don’t put any 
of that stuff over on the boy. He’s telling all 
he knows. See here. Sonny,” he said kindly, 
“did he find anything real nice and fine and 
worth lots of money?” 

“I don’t know,” said Jimmie, with a timid 
glance at Mr. Warren. 

“Don’t know?” 

“He never tells me ’less it’s a book or picture 
or somethin’ to play with.” 

“Never tells you, eh? Well, don’t you see 
things he finds?” 

“Nope! He puts ’em all in the shack an’ I 
never go in there.” 

“Why don’t you go in there?” 

“ ’Cause I never wants to, I guess,” came the 
frank answer. 

The officer straightened up, but Mr. Warren 
continued staring down at the uncomfortable lit- 
tle boy. 

“Lord! What hands!” he ejaculated. 


Little People of the Dust 29 

Jimmie hung his head. 

The officer turned to the speaker sharply: 

“Look at that scuttle there! If you had to 
pick that full of coal night and morning to keep 
your hide warm, do you suppose your hands 
would be as white and lily-like as they are?” 

Jimmie glanced up gratefully, first at the of- 
ficer and then at the man addressed. He saw 
that his face had suddenly become very red. 

“You’re right, officer,” he heard him say, “and 
I deserve the rebuke.” 

“That’s all right,” came the answer. “But 
it’s a good thing, once in a while, to consider 
the job the other fellow holds down. Now 
about this matter. I was jolted about in that 
buggy so hard that I only heard about half you 
said.” As he spoke he produced a huge note- 
book and a pencil. 

Little Jimmie, whose eyes were fixed first on 
one face, then on the other as each spoke, was 
completely forgotten and he stood there eagerly 
listening, unmindful of the scuttle of coal and 
the approaching hour for school. 

“Now,” began the officer, “what did you say 
the woman’s name was?” 

“Mrs. John Perkins.” 

“Address?” 

“76 Madison Hoad.” * 

“Article lost?” 


30 Little People of the Dust 

“A pearl necklace with a diamond pendant.” 

“Describe it.” 

“Well, it contained forty-six beautiful, large 
pearls, set in gold rings that linked together. 
The diamond was of fine quality and large.” 

“Yes. Value?” 

“Well, it cost seven thousand dollars, six 
years ago, in Paris and ought to be worth ten 
thousand to-day.” 

Little Jimmie’s eyes fairly bulged out of his 
head, as he listened in open-mouthed wonder. 

“Now,” said the officer, “give me a short ac- 
count of the way the necklace got into the ref- 
use can.” 

“Mrs. Perkins kept it in a safe,” answered 
the other, “and rarely took it out, for it was espe- 
cially precious to her, since it belonged to a little 
daughter who has recently died.” 

“Just a minute,” interrupted the officer. 
“Pat,” he called to one of the other two men 
who accompanied him, “you and Dave scatter 
over the dump and keep the crowd off if you 
can. There’ll be some more men here in a few 
minutes with the search-party. All right, now 
go on.” 

“Mrs. Perkins,” began the other, “took the 
necklace out four nights ago to show it to some 
friends and left it lying on her dresser-table on 
a pile of tissue paper that had been used to wrap 


Little People of the Dust 31 

it in. It was forgotten and one of the maids, 
in cleaning up later, chucked the paper — waste 
paper, as she thought — into the basket, and an- 
other carried it downstairs and emptied it into 
the steel can used for waste products. The can 
was in turn emptied into the collecting wagon 
and the latter dumped somewhere on this field.” 

“Very good. Now let’s see Black Peter.” 

Followed by Jimmie, the two men made their 
way to where he was already at work. He had 
seen them from afar, but took no pains to dis- 
cover their errand, for the presence of police 
officials on the dump was not an infrequent oc- 
currence, since many, many articles of value 
found their way thither in the daily process of 
keeping the great city clean. 

He raised his head and leaned on his rake 
as they came up — his inflamed eyes more in- 
terested in the sight of Jimmie’s abstraction than 
in them. 

“Good morning, Peter,” began the officer. 
“We are on the hunt for a pearl necklace with 
a diamond pendant. Mrs. Perkins believes it 
has found its way into the dump. Have you 
seen it? No? Of course not! Well, where 
has the dumping been done in the last four 
days?” 

Black Peter smiled. “ ’Most anywhere,” he 
said ; “sometimes here, sometimes over there,” he 


32 Little People of the Dust 

indicated the farthest reach of the dump, “and 
sometimes in here,” and his hand indicated the 
region about the pyramid, “and — ” he hesitated, 
“quite a bit close to that big rock over there.” 

“Humph!” ejaculated the officer. “Looks 
promising! By the way,” out came the big note- 
book again, “how about a reward?” 

“Five hundred dollars,” said Mr. Warren. 

Black Peter’s eyes glittered, and he smiled a 
little as he glanced down at the rapt, upturned 
face of Jimmie. The glance seemed to bring 
the latter to his senses, for he started, licked 
his thin, dry lips and, with a frightened look at 
the officer, ran back towards the abandoned 
scuttle, 

“What a little waif,” said Mr. Warren, look- 
ing after him. “He’s got legs about as big as 
toothpicks.” 

The officer looked at him shrewdly. “You’re 
not accustomed to the sight of little waifs, are 
you?” 

“Well, no,” answered the other. “You see, 
my business doesn’t bring me into contact with 
poverty. I’m a lawyer.” 

“Well,” said the officer, glancing at Black 
Peter, “that little fellow’s legs are thin because 
his stomach is empty a good part of the time 
and he spends his little life breathing in the dust 
of this damned dump.” 


Little People of the Dust 33 

‘‘They ought not to let him live near such a 
place.” 

The speaker turned at the sound of the bitter 
laugh that broke from Black Peter’s lips. 
“They? Who?” he questioned. “Why they, if 
you mean his parents, are mighty glad to get a 
cheap rent over there. It’s you, Mr. Lawyer, 
an’ such as you, that let this dump exist near 
them.” 

“Don’t get angry with me, my man,” an- 
swered the other. “I didn’t put the dump 
here.” 

“No,” said the officer, “but Peter is right. It’s 
you and you and you and a thousand other yous 
like you that let it exist regardless of life and 
death. But to come back, Peter, where would 
you advise to begin operations? I understand 
they’re going to overhaul this place to its roots 
to recover the lost article.” 

“Those ’re my orders,” said the other briskly. 

“Well,” drawled Black Peter, “if I was you, 
I’d start near that big rock an’ pull every lastin’ 
bit of the recent dump away from it.” His 
eyes had a twinkle in them that worried the 
officer. 

“Why haul it away from the rock?” 

“Well, you can’t never make a good job by 
siftin’ on the spot.” 

“Say,” began the lawyer suddenly, address- 


34 Little People of the Dust 

ing Black Peter, “what’ll you take a day to over- 
see the search?” 

“Five dollars,” answered Peter promptly. 

“It’s agreed,” said the other. “I’ll have ten 
men here to assist you with a wagon and all nec- 
essary tools.” 

“Do I get the reward besides if I find the 
necklace?” 

“Sure,” said the lawyer, “that’ll be a bonus.” 

So it came about that Black Peter entered 
into another’s employ, and he bent his energies 
honestly enough to recover the lost article. 

When Jimmie rushed into the kitchen and 
plumped his scuttle of coal down behind the bat- 
tered range, he was so excited he could hardly 
speak. His mother, out of whose life all en- 
thusiasm and hope had long since been crushed 
by the combined weight of extreme poverty and 
a husband’s drunken abuse, acquiesced with 
scarcely audible comment to his plan of remain- 
ing away from school and prosecuting an inde- 
pendent search. She listened to his childish 
prattle with no awakening enthusiasm and, after 
placing his meager meal of bread and black cof- 
fee before him, went into another part of the 
house. She was a slight, silent woman, with 
dark, lack-luster eyes and shoulders that were 
perceptibly stooped under the burden she bore. 

When Jimmie came out on the front porch a 


Little People of the Dust 35 

few moments later, the wagon and extra men 
had arrived. It was with eager excitement that 
he explained the whole wonderful occurrence 
to little Millie, who listened with brightening 
eyes. 

“What if we could find it?” she cried. “What 
would we do?” 

Jimmie was just climbing over the fence, 
though he might very easily have gone under. 

“I’d — I’d buy somethin’ real good to eat,” he 
answered, “an’ a new pair o’ shoes an’ — an’ — 1 
I think I’d get mother a new dress, ’cause I 
heard her tell pop she hadn’t had one in five 
years.” 

“And wouldn’t you get me one, too, Jimmie? 
This one’s tored.” 

She held the gaping rent in her faded pink 
calico open, so he could see the full extent of 
the damage. 

“Yep,” he said lightly, “ ’spec’ I would. I 
think I’d get somethin’ for ’most every little 
boy an’ girl that ain’t got nothin’, like you an’ 
me.” 

They had reached the big rock now and saw 
with amazement that the men were carting the 
old rubbish — heaps of blue and gray plaster and 
the old, red, broken bricks — from around its base 
and pihng it some distance away upon well- 
beaten ground. 


36 Little People of the Dust 

“What you doin’ that for?” questioned little 
Millie. 

Black Peter winked at the two of them wisely. 

“We’re a-huntin’ for that necklace,” he said, 
aloud. Then he whispered, bending down be- 
tween them, “An’ meanwhile, we’re excavatin’ 
for that oasis we was speakin’ about.” 

The news set Millie to dancing on her toes 
and clapping her little hands, while Jimmie 
looked on and smiled till he wrinkled his frec- 
kled nose. 

All the long morning the two children 
searched here and there among the debris. They 
visited the black pool in which the empty cans 
floated, and even ventured to peer with fright- 
ened eyes into the great, black holes where lived 
the colony of gaunt, gray-whiskered rats, 
against which Black Peter had so often warned 
them. They searched along the broken fence, 
and even visited the gnarled, old apple tree. 

“I wonder,” said Jimmie, looking up, “if Bil- 
lie mightn’t have it hid in his safe.” 

Old Billie, who was sitting right above them, 
cocked his head on one side and looked down, 
then he rose on his big legs and flapped his great 
black wings so viciously that both children fled 
in terror. 

One of the workmen near the big rock hap- 
pened to see the incident and, more through a 


Little People of the Dust 37 

desire to exercise his arm than an endeavor to 
hurt the bird, picked up a round stone and 
hurled it in his direction. His aim was bet- 
ter than he anticipated, for the missile passed 
within an inch of Billie’s head and brought forth 
a volume of indignant “caws.” 

Black Peter had witnessed the act. In an 
instant he reached the man and seized him by 
the arm. 

“Don’t you do that again,” he cried. “I 
won’t have anybody tryin’ to hurt that bird.” 

“I don’t see as he’s much good,” growled the 
other, somewhat amazed, but at the same time 
intimidated by the baleful look in Black Peter’s 
eyes. 

“Maybe you don’t,” was the answer, ‘‘but that 
crow has more sense than most men. There 
ain’t nobody goin’ to harm ’im when I’m 
around.” 

He dropped the man’s arm and went hack to 
work. After a while he raised his head and ad- 
dressed the group in general. 

“You see that little girl, there?” he indicated 
Millie, who sat nearby. “That there crow is 
the best friend she ever had, not barrin’ her fa- 
ther an’ mother. That’s why I won’t see no one 
harm ’im.” 


CHAPTER IV 


D uring all the following week the search 
for the necklace of pearls was prosecuted 
with as much vigor and thoroughness as 
ever characterized the work of explorers amid 
the tombs of the ancient Pharaohs. 

Somewhere in the wonderful book, the two 
tribes had found a reference to the great exca- 
vations then being carried on in Egypt and the 
precious jewels and head-bands of silver and 
necklaces of beaten gold that were being un- 
earthed after the oblivion of three thousand 
years. It intensified their interest in the search 
and lent a vivid color to the train of imaginings 
the wonderful book had already called into 
being. 

But the search was in vain. The desert was 
upheaved and, beyond the skeletons of two in- 
fants, and a quantity of old bottles and zinc and 
iron, all of which latter Black Peter appropri- 
ated to his own use, nothing of consequence was 
found, and the force of ten men retired from the 
field, defeated, but with all the honors of war. 

One thing, however, had been accomplished. 
The rubbish around the gray rock had been re- 
38 


39 


Little People of the Dust 

moved to the depth of four feet for a radius of 
six yards and the hole thus made needed now only 
to be filled in with good black earth to become 
a fit place for the oasis, whose prospective con- 
struction had never been lost sight of. This last 
fact was almost as pleasing to Black Peter as 
the thirty dollars he received for his share in the 
work. 

Leading as he did the loneliest kind of a life 
in the heart of the great dump, with nothing but 
its monotonous heaps of refuse to occupy his 
attention, he had found, dreaming the children’s 
dreams and assisting them with his mighty aid 
in making them realities, pleasant diversions 
from his daily round of duties. So heartily did 
he enter into their plans that he looked forward 
with almost as much pleasure as they to the even- 
ing hours, when, all work done, he could take up 
the genial task of renewing his youth. 

Besides this incentive, the man had a genuine 
affection for the little tribes, as well he might, 
for in the life of at least one he had played a very 
important part and the life of the other he had 
watched develop from earliest infancy. Hav- 
ing no family of his own and being by nature, 
despite his uncouth appearance, of a gentle and 
loving disposition, the two tribes filled what 
would have otherwise been a very vacant place 
in his existence. There were only two other 


40 Little People of the Dust 

creatures in the world whom he loved as well as 
he did them; one was Billie, the wise old crow, 
and the other, the sad, crushed woman in the 
demure cottage under the great willow, — Jim- 
mie’s mother. 

The story of his love for the latter dated back 
to the days when he and she lived close together 
in a far-distant city; the days when they were 
both young and when life held forth promises 
destined never to be fulfilled. In fact, they were 
lovers and even the day of the wedding had been 
set, when, as though thrust in by a jealous fate, 
another man came upon the scene. He was 
handsome and young and had some money, and 
prospects that looked exceedingly bright. He 
fell in love at once with the bright, vivacious girl, 
and forced his suit for her hand with an ardor 
and intensity that blinded her to the silent, pa- 
tient man to whom she was even then betrothed. 
For long months her heart was troubled, but in 
the end, the odds seemingly all in the newcomer’s 
favor, she decided to break her engagement to 
Peter Donlin and marry his rival. 

For three years all went well, then the crisis 
came. Her husband lost his position and, fail- 
ing to find another immediately, became discour- 
aged and took to drink. The following year 
Jimmie was born and the couple came to live 
on the edge of the great open field which even 


41 


Little People of the Dust 

then had become a vast dumping ground for 
the rapidly growing city. Here the following 
spring, Black Peter, as he soon became known, 
guided by an enduring love and the stories of 
her privations, came and found her ; and here he 
remained through all the following years, con- 
tent rather to eke out his precarious existence 
close to her side than to seek more lucrative em- 
ployment in more distant places. 

In all the weary time that followed, his con- 
duct towards her had been marked by the most 
exacting acknowledgment of every right in- 
volved. He had stood by with aching heart, 
watching the young life slowly being crushed 
out; though often, with black hate in his soul 
towards the author of their mutual ills, he had 
battled silently against an insane impulse to take 
his life. On more than one occasion, when drink 
and lack of work had brought the family to the 
verge of starvation, he had supplied the needed 
food from his own meager store. Though he 
seldom called at the little cottage and never 
went inside, he 'managed to keep a close watch 
on the trend of affairs. 

As the tribes came down to the edge of the 
desert, they saw his bowed form working far 
across on the new heaps. Millie carried a little 
paper bag in one hand. They stood for a mo- 
ment looking down at the great hole around the 


42 Little People of the Dust 

gray rock, then the little girl trilled so loudly 
that Black Peter heard her and lifted his head 
and then his arm in silent salutation. 

But something else had heard, too, for appar- 
ently out of the air itself came the swiftly glid- 
ing forms of the doves. One by one they set- 
tled down around the tribes, eagerly bobbing 
their heads up and down searching for the 
crumbs they had learned to expect. On the 
gnarled apple tree Billie fluffed out his feathers 
and shook himself and ducked his head prepara- 
tory to launching into flight. 

Little Millie took a handful of crumbs out 
of the bag and scattered them slowly upon the 
moving slate-colored backs of the hungry 
pigeons, and then held it out to Jimmie. He 
thrust in a grimy little hand and drew forth a 
big broken crust, which Was always brought out 
as a propitiatory offering to Billie, the Crow. 

The boy looked at it slyly, then at Billie who 
had not yet quitted his perch, then turning his 
back upon his companion began to eagerly eat 
the crust himself. When he had finished, he 
wiped his mouth furtively on his sleeve. Just 
then Billie’s black figure came gliding into view 
and the pigeons with one accord lifted them- 
selves on loudly flapping wings and whirled 
away. 

The crow settled almost at the children’s feet 


Little People of the Dust 43 

and looked around slowly — with apparent indif- 
ference. 

“Shoo!” cried Millie. “Go ’way!” 

But Billie only cocked his wise eyes at her 
and took a step closer. 

The little girl thrust her hand into the bag 
as she always did at this stage of the game. A 
blank look overspread her face. 

“Why, where’s Billie’s piece?” she cried. 

Jimmie was silent and fancied the crow’s 
beady eyes were fixed directly upon his in silent 
accusation. 

“I had it! You took it!” cried Millie. “Yes, 
you did! What did you do with it?” 

Jimmie dropped his head. 

“I— I eat it,” he said, in a low voice. 

“Eat it?” wailed Millie. “Eat Billie’s piece. 
Oh, you bad boy! Go ’way! I don’t like 
you!” 

Meanwhile Billie, apparently satisfied there 
was nothing worth while awaiting him, picked 
up the few crumbs remaining and fiapped off 
again to the apple tree. 

“You had your breakfast,” wailed Millie, as 
Jimmie walked slowly away. 

“I didn’t,” answered the boy stubbornly, “an’ 
I didn’t have no good supper neither. Pop’s 
drunk again.” 

“You did, too,” screamed Millie. “You did 


44 Little People of the Dust 

have it. You know you did. I’m going to tell 
Black Peter.” 

She dropped the bag and, followed by Jim- 
mie’s wistful eyes, made off on the run. 

When she had almost reached her destination, 
Jimmie turned and went mournfully otF to 
school. He was very little and very hungry, 
for he had had a very meager supper the night 
before and the only breakfast the morning had 
brought him was the bit he had stolen from 
Billie. 

But of course Miss Evans knew nothing of 
that; how should she, when it was her sole busi- 
ness in life to stuff his little brain with all man- 
ner of indigestibles. What she saw on the 
pinched little face was dirt and the desert’s dust, 
and she never dreamed that the dark, smeared 
places on his cheeks were the remains of tears 
that had been hastily wiped off. 

Her cold, gray eyes scanned him with mani- 
fest disapproval. 

“Come here!” she ordered peremptorily. He 
obeyed and, recognizing trouble with the instinct 
of the hunted animal, trembled in his broken 
shoes. 

“Hasn’t your mother any soap at home?” she 
questioned sharply. 

“No’m,” he said humbly. 


Little People of the Dust 45 

“Do you dare to stand there and make fun 
of me?’’ she cried, raising her voice. 

“No’m,” answered Jimmie, beginning to 
whimper. 

“Put your hands down, sir, and don’t tell me 
again you haven’t soap at home when you know 
it isn’t true.” 

Jimmie was cowed and said nothing, though 
in his brain were running the words: “She 
ain’t. She ain’t. I don’t care what you say, 
she ain’t.” 

Miss Evans’ eye took him in coldly: 

“Look at those hands! Do you remember 
what I said about God loving clean little boys?” 

The frowsy head nodded. 

“And don’t you want God to love you?” 

“He does love me,” he wailed. “I never done 
nothin’ to God, an’ — an’ — ” 

“And what?” 

“An’ mother says if I don’t do nothin’ to God, 
he’ll always love me.” 

Miss Evans’ hands rose in horror. 

“Ain’t done nothin’ to God!” Then, as 
though she recollected that for a wee fraction of 
a minute she had wandered away from her busi- 
ness in life, she said: “Ain’t done nothin’! 
Ain’t done nothin’! Fine talk, isn’t it, after all 
my teaching?” 


46 Little People of the Dust 

“Yes’m,” said Jimmie. 

‘‘Go to your seat,” came the order. “I’m dis- 
gusted with you!” 

Jimmie sat in his seat that morning with the 
same expression on his face that a mouse might 
have had as it peered fearfully out of its hole 
at the cat across the room. 

Meanwhile Millie had gone on her way and 
at last reached Black Peter, with her blue eyes 
very wide and full of accusation. 

“Peter, Peter!” she cried. “What do you 
think Jimmie done?” 

Black Peter paused in his work, to lift her in 
his arms: 

“I ain’t good at guessin’.” 

“That bad boy eat up Billie’s piece of crust. 
He said he was hungry, but he wasn’t, was he?” 

The smile died on Black Peter’s face with a 
suddenness that astonished Millie. 

“Yes, he did,” she cried, convinced now that 
it had been a very serious offense. 

The man put her down gently and sat down 
himself before he answered. His face was 
twitching and his fingers clenching and un- 
clenching till the muscles stood out in knots on 
the bare arms. 

“You won’t whip ’im, will you?” cried Millie, 
alarmed at the manner in which Black Peter had 
received the news. 


Little People of the Dust 47 

“Whip ’im?” cried Black Peter. “Poor little 
devil. Of course I won’t. Why, Billie’d be 
glad to have ’im eat his piece.” 

His eyes wandered away towards the little 
house. 

“If he’s hungry,” he muttered, “she’s hungrier 
still. Oh, God! She’s hungry, tool” 

He left Millie standing where she was and 
strode off to the shack. He entered and, tak- 
ing down an old piece of candle, lit it and, after 
closing the door behind him, knelt down in one 
corner. 

The feeble, yellow light cast a queer, frowzy 
shadow of his unkempt head upon the nearby 
wall. From its hiding-place he drew forth 
a meager roll of bills and thrust it in his 
pocket. 

“It’s mighty hard,” he muttered, “mighty 
hard. There ain’t no use tryin’ to save anyhow, 
’cause Fate’s against me like it always has been. 
Peter Donlin,” he went on, “you went crazy 
once over that gal an’ I guess you never recov- 
ered. Well,” he sighed, “it’s gone too far to 
quit now an’ I couldn’t see her a-starvin’ nor 
little Jimmie, if it was the last cent I had. Eat 
BiUie’s crust! I wonder,” he said slowly, “what 
that there lawyer fellow’d say about that?” 

When Jimmie came home from school that 
noon. Black Peter was sitting on the front porch. 


48 Little People of the Dust 

evidently waiting for him. He had a huge bun- 
dle of groceries lying by his side. 

“Jimmie,” he said softly, “did your ma say 
she was goin’ away to-day?” 

The boy shook his head. “See if you can 
get in, then,” he ordered, “ ’cause I’ve been 
a-knockin’ a long while an’ can’t get no answer.” 

Jimmie climbed upon the porch and did as 
directed. The door yielded to his touch and he 
entered. He was back in a moment. 

“She’s upstairs on the bed,” he said, “an’ she’s 
been a-cryin’, ’cause her eyes is red.” 

Black Peter heaved a great sigh of relief. 

“Come here, Jimmie. Millie told me you eat 
Billie’s crust. You needn’t hang your head, you 
poor little cuss, ’cause I know why. Now look 
here, don’t you never go hungry again. You 
just trot out there to your old Black Peter an’, as 
long as he can pull a rake, he’ll have somethin’ 
for your little stomick.” 

Jimmie was crying softly on the man’s shoul- 
der. 

“There, there,” he soothed. “It’s all right 
now an’ you ain’t never goin’ to eat Billie’s crust 
again. Now jes’ hold your arms out. That’s 
it, while I stuff ’em with these things. Now 
carry ’em to your mother an’ tell her they’re 
from Black Peter, who loves her to-day jes’ as 


Little People of the Dust 49 

he did years and years ago. What you goin’ 
to say now?” 

“Them’s from Black Peter, that loves you just 
the same as he did years an’ years ago,” repeated 
Jimmie. 

“That’s it ezactly. Trot along now.” 

“I jes’ thought,” said the man to himself, 
“that maybe she was down-hearted an’ it ’ud 
cheer her up to hear them words. An’ I do,” 
he groaned, covering his face with his black 
hands, “jes’ the same, jes’ the same, an’ the 
years don’t seem to make no difference at all.” 

Little Millie crept close to his side: 

“Cryin’, Black Peter?” 

The man lifted his haggard face. “Eh?” 

“Cryin’?” 

“Ha! Ha!” he laughed .brokenly. “I was 
jes’ playin’ to see what you’d do. Course no big 
man like me’d cry.” 

“Course not,” said Millie. “But you played 
too hard, ’cause they’s wet in your eyes.” 


CHAPTER V 



,HE wonderful book had little chance to 


fold its arms upon its breast and hug its 


precious pictures to its heart in the days 
of its great resurrection. At every possible mo- 
ment a pair or two of bright inquisitive eyes 
peered into its beautiful depths and on and on 
past paper and printer’s ink to a land that was 
fast becoming the abiding place of dreams. In 
more than one way it became the focus towards 
which the converging lines of the children’s in- 
terest steadily pointed. 

Jimmie dreamed over the memory of its 
pages in the wearisome hours of school, to the 
annoyance of Miss Evans, and the consequent 
punishment of himself. He would be half-way 
up the pyramid of Cheops with his hands 
clutched in the stone above for another desper- 
ate climb, when he would be shot through by a 
single word from the thin lips at the desk and 
fall back to the realities of things with a dread- 
ful abruptness; or he would be stretched out in 
luxurious ease at the base of a great Dom Palm 
on an oasis, around him rolling the vast brown 
circle of the desert, when, somewhere off on the 


51 


Little People of the Dust 

horizon, very, very far away, in a tangle of dark 
mist, would slowly rise two small gray suns. 
They would grow and grow, at first impercepti- 
bly, the mist, meanwhile, fading away on either 
side, until they took on a resemblance to some- 
thing dreadful he had seen before, something 
full of wrath and accusation, and almost imme- 
diately the desert would fade away, the Dom 
Palm disappear, and Avith a start he would find 
himself looking straight into the cold gray eyes 
of Miss Evans; then would follow a terrible 
period of perturbation, for, though no word was 
spoken, no matter where he hid, those eyes, he 
knew, were searching him out with unmerciful 
directness. 

But to-day was Saturday, the blessed day of 
freedom from those educational shackles which 
small limbs were never intended by a motherly 
and all-knowing nature to wear. 

The oasis was nearly completed; the great 
bowlder stood now in the midst of miniature 
heaps of rich black earth, each one a coal-scuttle- 
full, which little hands with bent backs and tot- 
tering legs had brought from around the base 
of the gnarled and stunted apple tree. 

The tribes surveyed their work with pride 
through eyes that danced in the anticipation of 
a little world that was to be. 

“Let’s rest,” panted Millie, as she slowly 


52 Little People of the Dust 

poured a stream of black earth from her scuttle 
to keep company with the others. Her cheeks 
were flushed as though with fever, and now and 
then, brought on no doubt by the strenuous work, 
a short, sharp cough shook her slender figure. 

“An’ let’s look in the wonderful book an’ see 
just how the oasis looks so’s we can make our’n 
like it!” exclaimed her companion. 

The book was forthwith brought and its 
leaves slowly turned, till a picture of an oasis 
in the desert was exposed to view. Before their 
young eyes stretched an endless plain of brown, 
wind-driven sand, to the right of which rose a 
low mound of closely huddled rocks, richly 
crested with fan-shaped palms, — pushing green 
fingers of grass and vegetation some distance into 
the desert. A camel stood to the left, its gaunt 
bird-like head upraised as though scenting the 
air. 

“I’m afraid we can’t never have palms like 
them,” murmured Jimmie. 

Millie looked at him out of very blue and seri- 
ous eyes. 

“I can,” she answered. “I can just sit an’ 
shut my eyes an’ look an’ look, an’ pretty soon 
I can see ’em as plain as day.” 

“I wish I could.” Jimmie’s face was dole- 
ful. 

“Maybe you can if you try. Just shut your 


Little People of the Dust 53 

eyes like this an’ — an’ see big, wavy palms. 
They move, too, when the wind blows an’ the 
sand drifts just like the book says an’ the camel’s 
beginnin’ to walk.” 

As though fearful of really missing something, 
Jimmie shut his eyes very tightly and puckered 
his little face very comically in a vain endeavor 
to see the things that Millie saw so easily. 

“Nope,” he said sadly, “I can’t see nothin’ but 
dust an’ smoke an’ yellow splotches. I can’t 
even see the camel what’s in the book.” 

Suddenly he opened his eyes very widely : 
“I’ll tell you. We can have the oasis here an’ 
we can go over an’ look at the palms in Mr. 
Hodges’ green-house.” 

That the idea met with instant favor was evi- 
denced by the fact that five minutes later they 
were both lying flat on their stomachs looking 
down through small grimy panes upon a scene 
of tropical luxuriance; and tropical it was and 
luxuriant, too, for if there was one thing above 
all others upon which Mr. Hodges’ heart was 
set, it was the growing of rare and unusual 
plants. There were great banana palms with 
wide-spreading leaves of yellowish green and 
midribs of brilliant red, and date palms with 
crowns of beautiful fan-shaped fronds, and rub- 
ber plants of bright glistening green, and here 
and there a vivid dash of orange where an or- 


54 Little People of the Dust 

chid spouted a fountain of bloom from some se- 
questered limb. 

They had seen the marvel below them many 
times, but now, under the spell of the wonderful 
book, it had taken on an intense meaning and 
a new interest, and so absorbed had they become 
that they did not notice the approach of Mr. 
Hodges himself along the leaf-covered aisle, and 
another, whose kindly massive face was set in 
pleasant lines and whose deep eyes seemed to 
have seen much sorrow in their long outlook on 
life. 

“Bless me !” cried Father Gillin, stepping back 
and laying hold on Mr. Hodges’ arm. “Do you 
see that earnest little face up there and that tan- 
gle of golden curls?” 

Mr. Hodges was just pointing out one of the 
rarest of his orchids, but, as he raised his eyes, 
he dropped his arm and a pleased smile crept 
over his face. 

“You’ve got nothing to show, my man, as 
beautiful as that,” laughed the priest, “and 
would you look there.” He pointed cautiously 
at Jimmie, whose eyes were fixed in wonderment 
on the glory of a pink-and-white orchid that 
clung to a little basket of reeds. 

Mr. Hodges placed his hands on his hips and 
cocked his gray head on one side, as he always 


Little People of the Dust 55 

did when he surveyed anything that pleased him 
much. 

“It’s worth the trouble of raising them,” he 
said slowly, “just to see those youngsters eating 
them with their eyes.” 

As he spoke Millie’s glance caught the two as 
they stood there. Her heart thumped in her 
breast and she called softly to Jimmie and be- 
gan to slide slowly backward from otF the slop- 
ing roof. 

In a second more they were fleeing like fright- 
ened rabbits across the open ground towards 
the rickety, wooden fence. 

Mr. Hodges was amazed at the new turn of 
events. 

“They’ll never come back, if they run off like 
that,” he called back to the priest as he made 
for the door, “and what a pity it would be to let 
my favorite orchids — ” He was gone and the 
door slammed behind him so hard that it rat- 
tled the small panes of glass in every direction. 

But the more he called, the faster the two ran 
and the harder their hearts pounded on their ribs 
and the shorter their breath came, and they never 
stopped once till they stood, fearfully gazing 
backward now and then, near the newly erected 
oasis. 

When Mr. Hodges returned he was very 


56 Little People of the Dust 

grave. “They’re gone,” he said, “gone like two 
little rays of sunshine, and you know. Father, 
I like little boys and girls, though I’ve got a hard 
name among them. You see, there’re boys and 
girls and there’re boys and girls. There’re those 
who come with bricks in their hands and those 
who come with interest in their eyes, like the two 
there. Too bad, now, too bad! I’m afraid 
they’ll never come back.” 

Father Gillin laid a heavy hand on his shoul- 
der. 

“John Hodges,” he said quietly, “y^^ should 
have had children of your own. Grandchildren, 
I mean.” 

Mr. Hodges did not answer at once; when he 
did, he looked the priest in the eye: 

“Can you tell me. Father, how it is that some 
people who want them can’t have them, and oth- 
ers who can have them don’t want them, and 
some who get them throw them to die on the 
Beaver Creek dump?” 

“God pity the man who would do a thing like 
that!” 

“But it has been done many times and I know 
it.” 

After that the two friends rambled through 
the long moist rooms, and it was only when the 
priest was about to depart that he laid his hand 
again on Mr. Hodges’ arm. 


57 


Little People of the Dust 

“And did you notice,” he said, “that his face 
was pinched as though he was hungry, and how 
very blue and ethereal her eyes were?” 

“I did,” said Mr. Hodges. “I wonder who 
they are and I’d mighty like to know, for I never 
saw such absorbed interest in two pairs of young 
eyes.” 

As the priest walked slowly away, the thought 
of the great dump and the terrible thing Mr. 
Hodges had said, bent his steps in that direction. 
He had never been down there before, for to 
him, as to everyone else, what spot under heaven 
could be less interesting than the casting-away 
place of a great city. He arrived at its paper- 
strewn edge and looked out across its many acres 
of desolation. 

“Of all the barren, desolate spots on earth!” 
he thought. “The Sahara Desert could not be 
worse than this.” 

As his eyes swept the low-lying heaps of 
broken plaster and discarded sand and white and 
black ashes, they rested suddenly on a large, 
gray bowlder that squatted like a fat toad in the 
waste and caught a glimpse of two children work- 
ing with bended backs over a spot of black. 
The sight aroused his curiosity and he went to- 
wards them, picking his way carefully between 
the crumbling heaps. 

The little girl raised her golden head and 


58 Little People of the Dust 

started like a frightened faun as he came near. 
Her blue eyes were wide with fright and in a 
second she would have been bounding away had 
not the priest stopped in his tracks. 

“Bless me!” he cried, “if they’re not the very 
same two.” He smiled broadly and held out his 
hand. 

“Come,” he said simply, “I want to be 
friends.” 

As with everybody else who knew the good 
priest, so now with them, the sight of that kindly 
face with its genial smile, completely dispelled 
their fears. 

Jimmie, who knew the priest by sight, did not 
hesitate to obey, but Millie stood on one leg with 
her head down on one side, studying him with 
bashful eyes. 

“And now,” began Father Gillin, when he had 
overcome all fears, “do you know that Mr. 
Hodges was very, very sorry you ran away as 
you did?” 

He had up-ended an old square can and 
Millie was sitting on his knee. She shook her 
golden curls very close to his cheek and smiled 
archly. 

“We was afraid he wanted to ketch us,” she 
answered, “an’ we didn’t dast to go back.” 

“But you will go back now, won’t you?” he 
went on. 


59 


Little People of the Dust 

Neither answered. 

“You’d like to see all the other pretty flowers 
he has, wouldn’t you?” 

“Just the palms,” said Jimmie in a matter-of- 
fact way. 

“Just the palms. Bless me and why the 
palms?” 

“ ’Cause there’s always palms in wasises,” 
said Millie, “an’ — ” 

“But oases are in deserts,” cried the mystified 
priest. 

Millie nodded her head. “That’s why we’re 
makin’ one here.” 

Father Gillin glanced at the heaps of black 
earth in sudden comprehension. 

“Bless me! What’ll John Hodges say about 
that?” Then he laughed low and musically. 
“What’ll John Hodges say about that?” 

“We thought we could have the oasis here an’ 
the palms over there,” explained Jimmie, “an’ 
we could remember the oasis an’ go over an’ 
look at the palms an’ then remember the palms 
an’ look at the oasis.” 

The priest laughed loudly and patted Jimmie 
on the head with a kindly hand. He had for- 
gotten the business of importance that had hur- 
ried him away from his one great delight, the 
flowers in the green-house behind him. His 
genial spirit had entered into the little dream of 


6o Little People of the Dust 

the children with an enthusiasm and zest that 
brought sparkles into both little pairs of eyes. 

“And I’ll be the missionary. Bless me, I will 
for sure now. There never was a savage tribe 
that didn’t need a missionary now and then, and 
since it’s the duty of all such apostles to the 
heathen to make themselves useful. I’ll just 
fetch over a few scuttles of that dirt myself.” 

He took a scuttle in each hand and flanked 
by the happy children started out. 

From his polished perch on the gnarled apple 
tree, Billie took in the new arrangement with a 
disapproving eye and he rose on his stubby legs 
and turned this way and that and flapped his 
wings and finally, as though driven to despera- 
tion, cawed so furiously that the missionary 
looked up in surprise. 

“What a noisy bird,” he commented; “I do 
believe he’s disgruntled about something.” 

“Go ahead. He won’t hurt you,” prompted 
Jimmie, himself hanging discreetly in the rear, 
and the missionary went ahead and back and 
forth with such persistency and so many times 
that, that night, he could hardly get down on his 
knees to say his evening prayers. 

At last he stopped and surveyed the pile of 
earth he had added to the rest. The perspira- 
tion was standing on his forehead and his 
clothes Were dashed with dust and dirt. 


Little People of the Dust 6i 

“That’s enough for to-day,” he said at last. 
Then he tapped his forehead reflectively. “And 
you live over there?” he asked, pointing towards 
the two houses under the spreading willow tree. 
“And your name is Millie and yours is Jimmie. 
Very well. Now some day I’m coming down to 
take a trip into the desert by way of the won- 
derful book, for I feel by the weight of my feet, 
it’s a long way to that oasis down there.” 

To go home he should have gone off in an- 
other direction but he found himself, still for- 
getful of his business, hastening back the same 
way he had come. 

He stopped at the desert’s edge to wave his 
hand in response to the little hands that wig- 
wagged from the neighborhood of the gray, cleft 
rock. 


CHAPTER VI 


N OW the bright April sun was full of 
the motherly warmth that the earth so 
loves and little fingers of green came 
poking up everywhere over the wide desert, the 
forerunners of leaf and stalk and bloom. And 
what queer places the little seeds chose in which 
to begin their eventful lives. Here on the very 
edge of the desert, at the feet of a barberry bush 
that was all studded over with emerald points 
though still retaining its pendant berries of deep, 
transparent red, a violet threw up its shovel- 
shaped leaves and had the courage to raise three 
purple eyes to the contemplation of the desolate 
scene beyond. Five grains of corn, through 
some perversity of fate, had lifted their light 
green blades from the earth that had accumu- 
lated in an old cooking utensil; with what gusto 
and enjoyment of life they grew, as though the 
spot in which they had found themselves was the 
very spot of all others they most desired to oc- 
cupy. The old apple tree through all its 
gnarled and knotty limbs felt the new pulse of 
life and raised a feeble answer and even, with 
the cheerfulness all unintelligent beings show, 
62 


Little People of the Dust 63 

determined to put forth a bud or two, in spite 
of all its past years of barrenness. 

And the tribes felt the influence, too, and their 
miniature eyes, which saw only the beautiful, 
because sorrow and suffering and years had not 
yet brought the ugly into being for them, looked 
over the acres of waste and danced as the sun 
dances on ripply water in the early morning 
hours. 

The oasis was nearing completion. Strange 
help had come in each night with heaps and 
heaps of earth and each morning the hole near 
the old apple tree was wider and deeper than 
before. This wonderful aid, which so substan- 
tially supplemented their own untiring but feeble 
efforts afforded no end of comment and specu- 
lation and was variously attributed to the woman 
who came nights with the wonderful flowers and 
the missionary who had shown unwonted zeal in 
that direction. Had they been older and wiser 
they might have read the riddle’s solution in the 
inflamed, low-lidded eyes of Black Peter as he 
came with an amused smile to oversee the work 
and hear their exclamations of delight. 

Round the gray, cleft rock instead of the 
brown ashes and blue and gray plaster and the 
dingy, red, broken bricks which had formerly 
reposed there, extended now, in circular form, a 
spot of soft, humid-smelhng earth whose rich 


64 Little People of the Dust 

blackness was only equaled by the sheen of 
Billie’s wings. It was irregular in outline as 
any normal oasis should be, and near the rock 
the earth was heaped higher than elsewhere in 
faint imitation of the pictured oasis that lay 
beyond the front cover of the wonderful book. 

The desert, though ugly to look at and cheer- 
less to all but eyes that were young and new, 
was nevertheless bountiful at heart and out of 
its vast storehouse, as he had done on many an- 
other occasion. Black Peter had resurrected an 
old broken hoe and a half of a rake. They were 
carefully mended and were very industriously 
plied on the morning the violets bloomed and 
the corn lifted its blades and the old apple tree 
promised once more what it never again could 
fulfill. 

Black Peter had come away from his work 
and sat on an up-ended square can watching the 
slow operation of kneading the black earth, with 
a curious smile in his inflamed eyes. 

“Are you happy?” he asked suddenly. 

Millie raised herself up to her full height and 
took a long breath. “I’m happier than any- 
body in the world,” she cried with a merry laugh. 

“And you, Jimmie?” 

“Me? Huh! When Millie ain’t coughin’ 
I’m happier’n God, I guess.” 

“But she don’t cough much now, does she?” 


Little People of the Dust 65 

‘‘A good deal nights,” said the boy sagely. 

Black Peter was silent, regarding the girl 
before him with grave, concerned eyes. Sud- 
denly she looked up. 

“Black Peter,” she called. As he seemed 
sunk in thought and did not answer her appeal, 
she repeated the name petulantly. 

“Eh?” he answered. 

“Why does my mamma always say you won’t 
like it when I Won’t take my medicine?” 

“Jes’ to scare you I guess,” he answered with 
a slight laugh. 

“But — but I ain’t afraid of you, am I?” 

“No, no! I guess not.” 

“Then why does she say it? Does she do what 
you say?” 

“You’re a-askin’ things I can’t answer,” he said 
quietly; “but you got to take your medicine, 
that’s sure.” 

“I’ll take it if you’ll tell me why my mamma 
always does what you say you want her to do 
about me.” 

Black Peter rose. “I guess I’ll jes’ get back 
to rakin’. Now don’t work too hard an’ keep 
your eye pealed for that pearl necklace.” He 
laughed in a low, chuckling manner and 
shambled off the way he had come. 

“An’ say,” he called back, when he had gone 
some distance, “you stay away from the black 


66 Little People of the Dust 

pool an’ that there ravine, ’cause the city’s 
stopped sendin’ any wet stuff an’ them rats is 
gettin’ so starved they might eat you in broad 
daylight. Now mind, don’t you go near the 
place.” 

When the children had given their promise 
of obedience, he shambled on his way muttering 
incoherently as was his fashion. 

The two tribes had worked long in silence 
after his departure when suddenly Jimmie raised 
his head and beheld the missionary threading his 
way over the uneven ground in their direction. 

He was smiling broadly as he came up, and 
his kindly eyes beamed with pleasure and good- 
will. 

“As busy as beavers,” he called out. 

They both ran to meet him and each took a 
hand as they conducted him back to the oasis. 
He sat down and chatted merrily for some time. 

“And now,” he went on, “when the beds are 
all ready what are you going to put in them?” 

A look of consternation swept over Jimmie’s 
face and even Millie’s active mind was staggered 
by this unforeseen contingency. 

“I guess,” volunteered Jimmie at last, “we’ll 
have to get some flowers in the desert. There’s 
mostly everything in the desert,” he added, look- 
ing up quickly. 

“Is there?” said the missionary. 


Little People of the Dust 67 

“They’ll be mornin’ glories, big white ones 
like eups,” cried Millie with brightening eyes, 
“an’ soft little woolly Indian tobacco, an’ jim- 
son lilies an’ — an’ — ^what do you think? Me’n 
Jimmie found three pretty blue violets right over 
there under the sticky bush.” 

“Bless me ! The desert blooms as the rose. 
Now I’ll bet those violets weren’t as blue as those 
two eyes.” 

“Nope,” said Jimmie in a matter-of-fact way, 
“they wasn’t. Millie’s eyes are prettier than any 
vilets.” 

“Are they?” and certainly, as they lifted, clear 
and transparent with simple innocence, the good 
priest thought he had never seen anything so 
pretty in all his life. 

“They are, child,” he answered gravely, “a 
thousand times prettier because they are two lit- 
tle windows of a simple beautiful soul.” 

The children looked puzzled. “But cornel 
come ! Here I am, a staid old missionary prais- 
ing the beauty of one of the tribe’s eyes. If it 
got out,” he whispered, “I’d be silenced,” and 
then he laughed so uproariously that the two 
joined in. 

“You look so funny down there when you 
laugh that way,” cried Millie. 

The missionary sobered instantly. 

“Down where?” he gasped. 


68 Little People of the Dust 

The thin little hand pointed directly at his 
generous waist-band. 

“You go up an’ down so funny when you 
laugh.” 

“Bless me!” roared the missionary. “What 
will John Hodges say about that? Oh! Ho! I’ll 
die! What will John Hodges say about that?” 

When the merriment had ceased and the 
missionary had wiped his eyes, and straightened 
out his face, the muscles of which had become 
cramped from laughter, he resumed the topic 
that had been so unceremoniously abandoned. 

“In spite of all the morning-glories,” he went 
on, “and the jimson weeds and even the violets, 
there’s nothing in this old desert good enough 
to go in an oasis that has been reclaimed from 
its burning waste. No, sir. Come along with 
me, the both of you, and we’ll see what we can 
do.” 

He got up and patted Millie’s golden hair. 
“Now, if you will be real good. I’ll take you to 
John Hodges’ hot-house and show you my favor- 
ite flower, a wonderful orchid that looks for all 
the world like a pink and white humming bird, 
with scarlet wings and a long brown bill that 
pokes right down into the basket.” 

Jimmie looked up with inquiring eyes. “Can 
I see that, too?” he questioned. 

“Of course you may,” said the missionary and 


Little People of the Dust 69 

he led them away and as they passed the gnarled 
old apple tree, Billie turned slowly round on his 
perch and ‘‘cawed” three times in rapid suc- 
cession. 

When they entered the green-house, Mr. 
Hodges, who had been busily engaged potting 
young ferns, came forward to greet them with 
his hands held out from his sides and his fingers 
gloved with rich brown earth. 

“John Hodges,” said the missionary, “this is 
Jimmie and this,” he drew Millie out from be- 
hind him, “is little Millie.” 

As the girl looked up into his seamed face with 
her eyes large and blue and her golden hair fall- 
ing around her neck, Mr. Hodges suddenly 
opened his lips and bent forward to gaze eagerly 
at her. Then he straightened up with a queer 
noise in his throat like a groan and laid his hand 
upon his heart. 

“Father Gillin,” he said weakly, “I must sit 
down. Help me.” 

In an instant the priest was at his side assist- 
ing him to a great inverted jar standing near 
at hand, upon which the old florist sat down 
weakly, his hand still over his heart. 

“What is it, John?” asked the priest, and little 
Millie shrank back from the gray eyes that fol- 
lowed her with a look so full of agonized inquiry 
that it frightened her. 


70 Little People of the Dust 

Mr. Hodges seemed to gather himself together 
at that, for a smile struggled into his face and 
he rose a little unsteadily. 

“Some day 111 tell you,’' he answered, “some 
day I must. It’s getting too much for me to 
bear alone. Right now we must make it pleas- 
ant for our little guests.” 

So began a wonderful ramble through the 
moist, warm aisles of the long green-houses. 
There were orange trees in bloom and wonderful 
velvety roses of cream-yellow hanging from 
long, snaky vines that etched themselves out 
in black against the glass overhead, and 
purple cactus blossoms and a thousand other 
wonders that brought brightness to the little 
eyes and cries of pleasure to the lips of the two 
tribes. 

At last they had made the round and were 
back again at the very same door through which 
they had entered. They were about to go out 
into the bright sunshine beyond when the mis- 
sionary noted that the boy hung back. 

“What is it, Jimmie?” he asked kindly. 

“I want to see the orchards with the pink 
humming bird,” said Jimmie shyly. The mis- 
sionary burst into a loud laugh. “The orchards! 
Hear that Mr. Hodges. Come on,” and he led 
the way back to the wonderful orchids that hov- 


Little People of the Dust 71 

ered over their wicker baskets. “There!” he 
cried triumphantly, “Look at those.” 

“I don’t see no hummin’ birds,” answered 
Jimmie; “them ’re flowers.” 

Millie was silent but very earnest-eyed. 

“I can see’m now,” she cried suddenly with 
her eyes tightly closed. “Shut your eyes, Jim- 
mie, an’ you can see ’em too. Oh ! Oh I They’re 
as plain as day, all a-flyin’ an’ hummin’.” 

“Can you hear what they’re hummin’?” asked 
Jimmie as he obediently closed his eyes so tightly 
that he wrinkled his nose. 

“Can you see ’em?” Millie’s voice was eagerly 
expectant. 

“Nope,” said Jimmie sadly, “I can’t see 
nothin’ but dust an’ smoke an’ clouds all covered 
over with pink spots.” 

Father Gillin laughed heartily, and even Mr. 
Hodges smiled, though his face had remained 
very long and sad since he had sat down with 
his hand over his heart. 

“Well, well, Millie is right,” said the priest. 
“In order to see resemblances in some things you 
must close your eyes when you look at them. 
Bless me, John Hodges, if I don’t use that in 
my sermon next Sunday morning. It will ad- 
mit of a great deal of ampliflcation. Take man, 
for instance, you or me, Mr. Hodges, and to see 


72 Little People of the Dust 

our resemblance to the Blessed Creator it’s neces- 
sary sometimes to close our eyes very tightly 
indeed.” 

“I don’t believe,” answered Mr. Hodges with 
a sincerity that was painful to behold, “that some 
men ever were made in the likeness of God. 
Father Gillin,” he was looking straight into the 
priest’s kindly eyes, “sometime I’ll tell you the 
story of one man that wasn’t.” As he said the 
words his hand went up to his left side again. 

Father Gillin’s face saddened. “When 
you’re ready, John Hodges,” he said, “when 
you’re ready.” 

After that they went out of the green-house 
and stopped before a great number of plants 
that were being prepared for early bedding. 

“The oasis is ready to be brought under culti- 
vation, Mr. Hodges.” 

“Is it, indeed?” answered the other. “Well, 
sir, we are prepared against the day.” 

He bent over the clustering pots out of each 
of which sprouted a little spray of green. 
“There’re two geraniums, some phlox, a pot of 
mignonette, some asters and here,” he con- 
cluded, reaching into his pocket, “is a package 
of beautiful poppy seeds.” 

He placed all the pots in the arms of the two 
tribes and the four of them started oiF for the 
desert. 


73 


Little People of the Dust 

On the way over, it was very apparent to the 
missionary that Mr. Hodges was deeply inter- 
ested in little Millie, for he walked by her side 
and his eyes followed every movement she made 
with a look of heart-hunger and sadness. 

It was evening before the two men came out 
of the desert. Behind them they left deep con- 
tent, for at last the little sprouts were neatly 
planted all as they should be and the oasis had 
come forth from the land of dreams. 

“It’s wonderful,” cried Millie with clasped 
hands. “Did you see how he tucked the dirt 
around ’em just like they was babies an’ he was 
puttin’ ’em in bed?” 

“If we only had a palm,” mourned Jimmie, 
“ ’cause I can’t close my eyes like you an’ see 
em. 

Meanwhile the two men were nearing the 
green-houses again. 

“Do you know who she is, or anything about 
her, Father Gillin?” Mr. Hodges asked sud- 
denly. 

“She’s the daughter of Mrs. Atkins, the widow 
in the little house yonder.” 

“You’re sure of that. Father?” 

“That’s what they say, John, and I have no 
reason to doubt the truth of it.” 

Mr. Hodges sighed. “To-night I want you 
to take supper with me, for I’ve a thing that 


74 Little People of the Dust 

must be attended to. They must have two 
palms for that oasis of theirs and Emily must be 
cheered up. Poor girl! She’s having one of 
her bad spells.” 

It was dark when two men emerged from the 
green-house door. One was medium sized and 
thin and the other was very stout and they bore 
a palm in each hand, the top fronds jolting above 
their heads with every step they took. 

“Are you making it. Father?” asked Mr. 
Hodges. 

“Very well,” panted the priest, “though I 
never thought this old earth of ours was as heavy 
as it is.” 

Mr. Hodges laughed. “Look out for that 
hole, now. It’s getting very dark.” 

“I’m past it, thank God,” said the priest, 
“with nothing worse than a sprained ankle.” 

They set the palms down on the ground and 
both laughed as they straightened up. 

“We’re only big children after all,” said the 
priest. “I’m as much interested in yon desert 
and its oasis as Millie and Jimmie and I doubt 
not they are dreaming of it this blessed minute. 

“If we can’t spread a little happiness around 
us as we go,” answered Mr. Hodges, “we had 
better be dead, though I’m sure I’d never have 
thought of these palms if it hadn’t been for you.” 

They resumed their tramp, Mr. Hodges, as 


Little People of the Dust 75 

before, picking out the way, and at last, in the 
natural course of events, they came to the oasis. 
Together they filled in the cleft in the great rock 
and potted the palms where they would look as 
effective as possible. 

The moon had risen and the desert had grown 
ghostly in its radiance; a paper, driven by the 
rising wind, flapped idly past. Black Peter’s 
fire had burned down and was only a heap of 
winking red eyes in the distance. 

“What a ghostly place,” said the priest. 

“The place of death,” answered Mr. Hodges. 
Then he turned to the priest. “Father Gillin,” 
he said, quietly, “you and I believe differently 
on many points of religion, but on one I think 
we are agreed.” 

“And what is that, John Hodges?” 

“That there must be, up there, or down there, 
or wherever it ought to be, a place of retribution 
for sins that never could be atoned for in the 
years that man lives upon this earth.” 


CHAPTER VII 


I T was Maytime and over the desolation of 
the desert was slowly moving the witchery 
of growing things. A violet still lingered 
under the gnarled, old apple tree and the tree 
itself had hung a delicate pink blossom here and 
there round which a wondering bee buzzed to the 
annoyance of old Billie, the crow. The ten- 
tative little fingers of green that had everywhere 
been pushed up, had become stock and leaf and 
even fiower and the five grains of corn had lived 
long enough to discover that an abandoned cook- 
ing utensil was a very unsatisfactory place to 
grow in. 

Along the edges of the deep ravine that led 
down to the black pool, the long vines of the wild 
morning-glory had crept, their myriad tendrils 
feeling their way with almost human careful- 
ness, and here and there in their masses of deeper 
green, a pure white, trumpet-shaped blossom 
had lifted its glory to the air. 

The desert, in truth, was no longer the place 
of desolation and death that it had been. There 
was life, life everywhere; in the green of the 
spreading purslane and the uncoiling of the wild 
76 


77 


Little People of the Dust 

brake’s shepherd’s crooks, near the black pool; 
in the bee that found honey in every blossom it 
visited and the myriad earwigs and gray beetles 
that swarmed under every stick and stone. 

But in the oasis was life of a higher and more 
beautiful order than that which flourished in 
unrestrained freedom without. Round the gray 
rock with the potted plants, had been sown the 
poppy seeds and they had germinated and grown 
in the rich soil with an abandon that promised 
a rich harvest of bloom in the days to come; the 
palms in the cleft of the rock had flourished, too, 
and stretched out their long-flngered hands as 
though in perpetual appeal to the charity of sun 
and air and rain. 

It was here that the missionary found the two 
tribes one sunny Saturday afternoon. He had 
been making a sick call on the other side of the 
desert and as he skirted its edge on the way 
home, had sighted their bowed heads and 
dropped down on them for a moment’s chat. 

‘'There you are,” he cried gayly. They 
glanced up with happy laughter and Millie, 
shaking back her golden hair with a pretty toss 
of her head, ran to him and took his hand in both 
of hers. 

The missionary looked down at her at first 
with a welcome smile and then with some appre- 
hension. 


78 Little People of the Dust 

‘'Have you been sick, my child?’' he questioned 
kindly. 

She shook her head shyly. 

“Only the cough,” Jimmie answered; “she 
won’t take her medicine.” 

“What medicine?” asked the missionary. 

“The medicine Black Peter give her,” 
answered the boy. “She makes me take a spoon- 
ful first an’ then she squeals.” 

“Well?” asked the priest. 

“I took so many firsts, there ain’t no seconds 
left.” 

“Ha! Ha!” laughed the missionary and Millie 
glanced up with a roguish smile in her blue eyes. 

“Well, how do you feel, Jimmie, after all the 
medicine?” 

“I feel fine,” answered the boy. “I ain’t got 
no cough. If she don’t take the next bottle, 
she’ll die.” 

“Oh, no, no ! God forbid ! God forbid ! But 
come now, neither one of you found Mrs. Per- 
kins’ necklace, I suppose.” 

“We’ve tried,” said Millie, “but I guess Billie 
got it.” 

“Billie. Who’s Billie?” 

“Don’t you know Billie? There he is settin’ 
on the apple tree.” 

“The crow?” 

“Sure! He’s our friend and Black Peter 


Little People of the Dust 79 

loves him more’n anybody else, I guess, ’cept 
Millie.” 

“Well, if he’s got the necklace,” said the mis- 
sionary, “he ought to give it back and get the 
reward.” 

As he spoke Black Peter came up. He had 
seen the priest from afar and eagerly seized the 
opportunity of having a chat with him. He 
carried an immense bundle of faded striped tick- 
ing, which, at some time or other he had ripped 
from discarded mattresses. 

“Good afternoon, Father Gillin,” he said 
cordially, and the missionary extended a hand 
that gripped his- warmly. 

“This is a fine bit of work you are doing, 
Peter.” He indicated the oasis with a sweep of 
his hand. 

“Oh, that,” answered the other. “It’s pretty 
dull here on the dump for little people. Father 
Gillin.” 

“And what have you there, Peter?” He 
pointed to the ticking. 

“That? Oh, that’s some stuff I’ve had stored 
up for a year or more. I’m goin’ to make a 
tent.” 

“A tent?” echoed the priest. 

“Yes, a nice, big, cool tent for the tribes. 
Father. There can’t be no real desert without 
a tent.” 


8o 


Little People of the Dust 

“You’ve a generous heart, my man,” said the 
priest feelingly. 

“I’ve seen little Millie a-bendin’ over them 
flowers days when the sun was blisterin’ hot. 
Says I, ‘how’ll she stand it when the July suns 
are up above an’ the dust-devils are dancin’ out 
there’?” 

“She couldn’t,” said the priest. 

“So I remembered this old tickin’ an’ here it 
is an’ there’ll soon be a flne cool place for ’em 
to sit an’ dream over the wonderful book.” 

By this time both children were dancing with 
delight and while the missionary seated himself 
and looked on, lending a hand now and then 
when necessary. Black Peter dug the holes for 
the posts, set them up and stretched the ticking 
tightly over, making a roomy square tent with 
a roof sloping against the south wind and an 
awning stretching over the entrance for a good 
two yards. 

“It’s been some work, Peter, to fit all that 
ticking.” 

“Not a great deal. I’ve nothin’ to do nights 
an’ a little sewin’ an’ cuttin’ such as this only 
serves to while away the time.” 

“I do believe, man, that you enjoy this make- 
believe desert as much as they?” 

“Who wouldn’t?” answered the other. ‘ “I 


8i 


Little People of the Dust 

hope the youth is not so dead in me that I can’t 
find pleasure in a little dream now an’ then. 
But say, Father, have you noticed little Millie, 
how frail an’ thin she is?” 

“I did,” answered the priest, “she needs a 
change, dear child.” 

Black Peter sighed and went on with his work 
in silence. The missionary seemed lost in 
thought. Suddenly he raised his head. 

“Peter,” he said in a tone so low that the chil- 
dren, who were playing about the pyramid of 
Cheops, could not hear. “Do you know John 
Hodges?” 

“I do, slightly,” answered the other as he 
stretched up his arms to tack the ticking in 
place. 

“Have you seen him of late?” 

“Not for a year or more. Father.” 

“Ah, well, never mind then, I thought per- 
haps you’d noticed the change in him, too.” 

“Is he sick?” 

“N-no, not sick, but there’s something pulling 
him down. I can’t guess what. Have you ever 
seen his daughter?” 

“Not that I remember,” said the other. 

“A beautiful woman, Peter, a saintly, beau- 
tiful woman, but a woman of sorrow, I fear, 
from all my old eyes can see.” 


82 Little People of the Dust 

“There’s many people of sorrow, Father 
Gillin,” said Black Peter, taking a tack from be- 
tween his lips, “the world’s full o’ them.” 

“I know, I know,” said the other, “there’s 
more sadness than joy in the world, I do 
believe.” 

Black Peter’s work was done and with the 
delighted children running in and out, he stood 
back to survey the results of his handicraft. 

“It’ll do,” he said reflectively and with a part- 
ing word to the missionary was about to stride 
off to his neglected work, when Millie suddenly 
stopped in her play and called after him. 

“Did she come last night. Black Peter?” 
“Eh?” 

“Did the woman come with the beautiful 
flowers ?” 

“Oh, by Jinks! I forgot all about them,” he 
answered. Then he looked a little askance at the 
priest as though uncertain what course to pur- 
sue, but Father Gillin’s knowing eyes were upon 
him. 

“About what, Peter, may I ask?” 

“About the posies,” answered the other awk- 
wardly. His face lighted with a slow smile. 
“There’s no end of queer things happenin’ in the 
desert. Father. Jes’ wait an’ I’ll go fetch ’em.” 

He was off at once, walking with a peculiar 
rolling shamble that made his going grotesquely 


Little People of the Dust 83 

like that of a hurrying bear. The priest’s eyes 
followed him fondly. 

“He’s a good soul despite his blackness and 
dirt,” he muttered. “I imagine John the Bap- 
tist must have looked something like him after 
he had lived in the desert on locusts and wild 
honey.” 

“They’s locusts here,” said Jimmie, whose 
keen ears had caught the priest’s mutterings, 
“an’ they’s honey in all the pretty httle flower- 
cups.” 

“Yes,” cried Millie, “an’ you can taste it if you 
suck the ends of the clover flowers.” 

“I should think then all you needed was a 
bee,” laughed the missionary. 

“They won’t let you touch ’em,” cried Jim- 
mie, “they just want to be let alone an’ buzz.” 

The missionary was amused. “Who told you 
that, now?” 

“He tried ’em,” cried Millie, shaking her head 
earnestly, “an’ one stuck ’im with the pin in its 
bottom.” 

“Ho! ho! Ha! Ha!” laughed the missionary. 
“What will John Hodges say about that?” 

But Black Peter had come back with a huge 
bunch of the most wonderful orchids and cream- 
colored roses. As he approached, the mis- 
sionary’s eyes which had noted the flowers from 
afar, took on a look of such incredulous wonder- 


84 Little People of the Dust 

ment that his face lost all its indications of 
power and experience and became positively 
childish. 

“Ain’t them beauties?” asked Black Peter, 
holding them up for close inspection. 

“Beauties?” cried the missionary. “There’s 
only one place in the city they could come from. 
Where did you get them?” There was a hint 
of suspicion in the low-toned question. 

“Right over there,” answered Black Peter, 
“on the very spot where they found the bones of 
the little child.” 

“God bless me!” cried the missionary. 
“What a dreadful place this is.” He glanced 
around fearfully, then seated himself weakly on 
the big square tin. “They’re John Hodges’ 
orchids and roses,” he kept saying to himself. 
Then he brightened a little ; “perhaps after all he 
sold them to somebody, though he told me him- 
self, money couldn’t buy them. Come, Peter,” 
he spoke out at last, “tell me the story of these 
flowers. I must know, for there’s a great trouble 
and doubt in my heart.” 

Black Peter seated himself after handing the 
orchids to Millie, who hugged them close to her 
breast with her face in their midst and her golden 
hair falling like a glory over all. 

“There ain’t much to tell. Father, only this, 
that some woman, a tall, slender woman, comes 


Little People of the Dust 85 

into the dump, the sixteenth of every month. 
She comes at night about eight or nine, perhaps, 
an’ brings flowers like them.” 

“And what does she do with them?” ques- 
tioned the priest in a hoarse, strained voice. 

“She kneels down near a heap of rubbish an’ 
cries an’ prays an’ puts the flowers down as 
though she was decoratin’ a grave.” 

“God bless me!” cried the priest, “and you 
never saw her face? Was it beautiful? Was 
her hair gray?” 

“I never got near enough to see it so’s to tell,” 
answered Peter. “Though last night I went 
mighty close with my big club for fear o’ the 
rats.” 

The priest rose, “Enough! Enough!” he 
cried. In his soul was horror and sickening 
doubt. Long after Black Peter had gone back 
to his work, he sat, head in hands and pondered 
over what he had heard. At last he roused him- 
self and rose to depart. 

“Come here, my children,” he said kindly. 
“Do you know who lives up there, far, far beyond 
the blue sky?” 

“Tain’t blue,” said Jimmie. 

The missionary glanced up, “Bless me, it 
isn’t, it looks like rain. But come now, do you 
know who lives far beyond the clouds up there?” 

“God,” said Millie, in an awed little voice. 


86 Little People of the Dust 

“Do you know that you are, both of you, his 
little children and since he is so good you must 
be good, too?” 

“We don’t do nothin’,” said Jimmie. 

“Every minute of the day he watches you and 
takes care of you and- — ” 

“Does he really give us things if we ask 
for ’em?” questioned Millie. 

“Yes, indeed,” said the priest, “if you ask 
properly, but just look here at all he has given 
you already.” He lifted up a golden curl. 
“He gave you that pretty hair and those blue 
eyes and those pearly teeth.” 

“He didn’t give me nothin’,” said Jimmie 
stoutly. 

“Yes, he did, Jimmie, many things.” 

“No, he didn’t. Father, he just put these 
freckles on my face an’ pretty near ruined me.” 

Both children looked up in amazement at the 
spasm of laughter that overtook the missionary. 
All the pain and sorrow had faded from his face. 

“Kuined you? Ha! ha! Oh, what will John 
Hodges say about that? Jimmie, my boy,” he 
went on when he had controlled himself, “that’s 
the best thing I’ve heard in many a day.” Sud- 
denly he looked up. A murky, yellowish light 
was creeping over the landscape. 

“Bless me!” he cried. “I must hurry, we’re 



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My Face and Pretty Near Ruined Me” 


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Little People of the Dust 87 

going to have an old sender of a storm. 
Run home now, both of you, and I’ll promise to 
come over very soon and take you for a long 
car-ride into the country.” 

As they left the oasis, after tying the tent flap 
down, they saw the pigeons wheel in a dense 
cloud of whirring wings up over the sheer walls 
of the storage plant and Billie ruffling all his 
feathers till he looked twice his natural size, gave 
vent to wild ‘‘caws” of excitement. 

The children had hardly gained the shelter 
of Jimmie’s porch when the storm began. A 
great wind swept up from the south, lifting the 
dust in sheets and whirling it aloft, a yellowish 
blanket over the sky. 

“See the dust-devils dance!” cried Millie, as the 
eddies of the wind caught the ashes up in a wild 
whirling vortex and swept them away out of 
sight in a riot of circling clouds. 

“I don’t like ’em,” answered Jimmie; “they 
make me shiver. I was in one onct an’ it 
filled my mouth with ashes an’ hurt my eyes so’s 
I couldn’t see ’ithout cryin’ tears for a long 
time.” 

“Oh! Oh!” cried Millie, clapping her hands 
over her ears, as a vivid flash lit the murky, yel- 
lowish gloom of the distant sky. The thunder 
that followed rocked the little cottages on their 


88 Little People of the Dust 

foundations and the two children scuttled pre- 
cipitately through the door which Jimmie’s 
mother held open for them. 

Without, the wind lashed the pliant arms of 
the old willow and whistled a wild tune under 
the eaves, and the falling rain was awesome as 
it rattled impetuously at the window panes or 
scurried in gray, blue sheets across the desert’s 
face. 

The dust no longer whirled aloft; the yellow- 
ish tones of the desert’s face softened to a sullen 
gray, and through the mist of the driving rain 
the gnarled apple tree showed a darker, deeper 
green. The only living thing that moved in the 
vast expanse was Billie and, as though shouting 
defiance to all the elements of storm, he rose on 
his toes and flapped his wings and cawed with 
a deep resonance in his hoarse voice. 

With as much suddenness as it began, the rain 
passed; a slender beam of dazzling pure light 
broke through the ragged edge of scattering 
clouds, and, like a huge search-light, fell full 
upon the oasis and its laboring tent, then faded 
slowly to break through in a distant place again. 
The fury of the storm was over, but still the soft 
rain fell and beneath the large, swiftly descend- 
ing drops the desert purred like an enormous 
cat. Every can and old kettle and piece of tin, 
and there were millions, gave forth its resonant 


Little People of the Dust 89 

note to swell and blend into one harmonious 
whole. And, as the storm passed, the sinister 
forces of the desert woke to life in the half 
darkness of cloud and still falling rain. 

Up the ravine, silently stealing with noiseless 
feet and soft, wary snitFs at the humid air, came 
seven gaunt, gray-whiskered rats from the holes 
above the black pool. Their beady eyes shone 
with expectant luster and their slinking forms 
moved like a menace on the earth. 

They reached the oasis and the great rock and 
were about to forage through the tent, when Bil- 
lie slid from his perch with a subdued flapping 
of his wings. He circled them once, then 
dropped like a plummet on the hindmost and 
attacked him with wings and claws and beak. 
There was a wild scurry of the rest down the 
long ravine and Billie, sitting on his prostrate 
foe, finished his meal in peace. 


CHAPTER VIII 


S ATURDAY morning. The week had 
been very long for little Millie, for it had 
brought only occasional glimpses of Jim- 
mie, when he had stopped for a word with her 
as he ran an errand or came over after supper 
for a brief peep into the wonderful book. Of 
course she had gone often to the oasis; so often 
that a path had been worn hard and firm be- 
tween it and her own front steps. She had wa- 
tered and weeded and dusted and had sat by the 
hour in the shade of the big tent and watched 
with minute interest the small happenings within 
the range of her limited vision. The doves had 
been her greatest consolation, for they came reg- 
ularly in a soft whirring of wings to settle all 
around and over her, eagerly searching for 
crumbs they had grown accustomed to receiving ; 
Big Tim had even submitted to a gentle strok- 
ing of his iridescent neck and had actually 
puffed out his throat and cooed with pleasure. 
But their call was always short and the air was 
soon vibrant with their retreating wings as, the 
last crumb disposed of, they flapped up into the 
90 


Little People of the Dust 91 

sky and wheeled away over the great walls of the 
storage plant. 

But Saturday had come at last and Jimmie 
was there and, wonder of wonders, as though 
awaiting his coming, that very morning the long- 
watched bud on the scarlet poppy had burst into 
bloom. They had come on it with no such ex- 
pectations in their minds, and the richness and 
beauty of its appearance quite took away their 
breath. 

For a moment they could do nothing but 
stand and gaze down upon it with eyes wide open 
with wonder and bright with the pleasure of 
achievement. 

Little Millie slowly drew her clasped hands to 
her breast. They were pitifully frail and trans- 
parent, even under the tan the hot days had 
given. The blue eyes she raised to Jimmie’s face 
were even larger and more ethereal looking than 
ever before. A wee mite of a thing; her face 
transfigured with joy, she seemed too unreal and 
too frail for the bitter struggle the earth required 
and perilously close to the great border of the 
Beyond. 

‘‘It’s just our’n, ain’t it, Jimmie?” Her voice 
was eager, but thin and weak. 

“Yep,” he answered, with a wide grin. “Just 
mine an’ your’n, an’ — an’ I guess a wee bit’s 
Black Peter’s.” 


92 Little People of the Dust 

After the first great wonder had passed, they 
sat in the shade of the tent, for it was warm and 
humid outside, with the wonderful book spread- 
ing its wide wings on Millie’s knees and their 
little hearts were full of a deep content. 

Had not the first wonderful fiower burst into 
bloom in the nourishing heart of the little oasis? 
Where there had been nothing but deep brown 
earth and sprays of green and the gray dust 
that sifted in from the wide desert beyond, now 
there was color; the bright flame of a poppy 
that burned with all the vigor of its young 
life. 

They were both looking at it intently for the 
thousandth time. It was not that their young 
eyes had never seen such a blossom before, 
for under the rain-marked gray glass of Mr. 
Hodges’ green-houses there were many more 
vivid and beautiful than it, but this one was their 
very own; the first offering of the little oasis to 
their days of steady toil. 

“It ’most seems like a little ‘Thank you’ from 
the ground,” said Millie, “an’ I’m sure it’s 
happy, for see how its little leaves shake an’ it 
never seems to mind the dust at all.” 

“It’s just glad to be alive,” answered Jimmie, 
“like me’n you.” 

“I was hopin’ it would be white or blue,” she 
coughed gently as she spoke, “for then we could 


Little People of the Dust 93 

have dreamed it was a lotus flower like them 
that bloom on the river Nile.” 

“Maybe they is red lotuses,” answered Jim- 
mie, encouragingly. 

“It don’t say so in the wonderful book.” 

“Aw! It don’t say everythin’ in that book, 
though I guess it says most everythin’,” rejoined 
Jimmie. “Anyhow, I’m glad it’s bloomed at 
all. It’s there where we can look at it an’ it’s 
our own an’ we can play it’s a red lotus if we 
want to. The book says the lotus makes peo- 
ple dream, don’t it?” 

Millie’s little transparent Angers turned the 
gayly illustrated pages. She came to one in 
which the predominant tone was the tawny yel- 
low of barren sand. Even the unbroken sky, 
which curved down like a great inverted bowl, 
held a faint suggestion of the yellow waste be- 
low. A river, smooth as glass fllled the fore- 
ground and on its farther bank, where the desert 
rose to view, scattered clumps of dark green 
palms cast long reflections on the even flood. 
But the thing that caught the children’s eyes was 
the graceful lotus plant that showered its huge 
circular leaves gracefully from its central root 
and lifted up huge blossoms of creamy white on 
slender stems and seed-pods of rusty brown. 

The two little heads were very close together 
as they studied the picture before them. 


94 Little People of the Dust 

‘‘It just seems to me,” said Millie, “that I don’t 
see paper at all, but away over there in a real 
country.” 

“What does it say about the lotuses?” 

Millie began to read the short note that was 
printed beneath the picture. “The lotus ! What 
dreams gather out of the shadows of the past at 
the mention of the name ! Like the spirit of the 
Nile, it crowds upon the river’s edge, lifting its 
wonderful white and blue lilies to the blue skies 
above, filling the morning air with its spicy 
breath.” 

“Even if it don’t say red lotuses,” commented 
the boy, “that’s no reason they ain’t none.” His 
eyes wandered away from the book to the scarlet 
fiower that grew so tall and beautiful at the base 
of the gray rock. “It don’t seem to mind 
growin’ here in the desert,” he reasoned. “An’ 
it holds its head as high an’ seems as proud as 
them that grow in Mr. Hodges’ green-house.” 

“Oh, oh! Lookee! There!” cried Millie. 
“See it? A butterfiy!” The little girl scram- 
bled to her knees and the wonderful book fell 
face down in the dirt. The golden hair floated 
around her delicate face and her little transpar- 
ent hands were clasped together. “Do you think 
it will really come over here?” 

“I guess so,” answered Jimmie, “if we set real 
still.” 


Little People of the Dust 95 

“Oh, won’t it be fun? It seems to me it’s just 
like a pretty boat with all its silk sails spread 
out.” 

With eager eyes the two tribes watched its 
approach. It skimmed the gray ash heaps, 
wheeled away in a wide arc, hovered for a sec- 
ond over a dandelion, then rose lightly as a leaf 
into the air. A sigh escaped the little girl. 

“What if it didn’t see an’ didn’t care?” 

But it did see and care, for it fluttered up and 
down, ever nearer and nearer, until it hovered 
over the scarlet blossom that was the pride and 
beauty of the little oasis. It was very large and, 
as it settled with the daintiest possible grace on 
the uplifted flower, the children saw that its 
color was a deep blue and its lower wings were 
forked like a swallow’s tail. 

“It seems happy, too,” whispered Millie, “for 
see how its little wings tremble an’ shake. It 
just seems everything is happy to-day.” 

A fit of coughing suddenly came over her. 
She tried to stop the sudden noise with the palms 
of her hands, but the butterfly heard and, lifting 
itself on its broad wings, fluttered up and away 
till it was quite out of sight in the medley of col- 
ors on the desert. 

“I’m so sorry,” wailed the little girl, when the 
coughing had ceased. “Do you think it will 
ever, ever come back?” 


96 Little People of the Dust 

“Maybe some day,’’ answered Jimmie. “It 
wouldn’t stay long, anyway.” 

“I hope it dreams sweet dreams,” said Millie, 
her blue eyes far-seeing, “just as the book says 
the lotus makes people dream. Maybe, oh, 
Jimmie! maybe that wasn’t a butterfly at all.” 

“It looked mighty like one.” 

“But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was a little 
fairy that came out to see how the oasis looked.” 

“It was a butterfly, all right,” answered 
Jimmie, “an’ it come from a great, big green 
worm. I know, ’cause the teacher said so.” 

“A worm?” Millie’s horrified voice was full 
of disappointment. 

“I don’t believe it, though,” Jimmie hastened 
to add, conscious somehow that he had hurt his 
companion’s feelings, “for where could a worm 
git wings like that an’, anyway, worms can’t 

fly” 

The argument was convincing. 

“It was a fairy,” reiterated Millie, “wasn’t it, 
Jimmie?” 

“Sure. It must o’ been.” 

Any further discussion of the subject was cut 
short by the appearance of Black Peter. He 
held something in his hand and his dusty face 
smiled good-humoredly as he approached: 

“There you are, you little wisp, sittin’ on the 
cold ground again.” 


Little People of the Dust 97 

He tried to set his face in very stern lines, but 
failed miserably. “That cold of your’n ’ll never 
get better that way. Now see here, this is a real 
Persian rug; at least, part of a real Persian rug.” 
He spread it carefully on the ground beneath 
the tent. “I found it half burned up on a pile 
of stuff that come out of old Judge Whitcomb’s 
house. Seel I’ve cut all the burned away an’ 
what’s left is good as new. I expected to sell 
it for a good price, but I’ll give it to you, if 
you’ll promise never to sit on the ground again.” 

Millie threw herself delightedly on the rug 
and made room for Jimmie beside her. “What’s 
a Persian rug. Black Peter?” she questioned. 

“A Persian rug,” he answered, seating him- 
self, “is a rug that’s made in Persia. They’re 
real expensive. Why, landsakes I That rug 
there, if it was whole, would be worth three hun- 
dred dollars. Some queen, jes’ as like as not, 
set on it jes’ the same as you are now.” 

“A queen!” echoed Millie, while Jimmie 
smiled incredulously. 

“Jes’ look at it. Did you ever see anything 
so beautiful as that?” 

The children did look at it, at first casually, 
then with growing interest. 

“It seems to me,” said Millie, at length, “that 
it’s just full an’ full of dear little butterflies.” 

“There you are,” answered Black Peter, “an’ 


98 Little People of the Dust 

I read somewheres that them Persians use but- 
terflies as models when they make them rugs.” 

It was then that Millie attempted to tell him 
of their butterfly, but her vivacious little voice 
was cut short by another fit of coughing. 

Black Peter’s eyes, that the dust had made 
red and inflamed, looked at her long and anx- 
iously. 

“Her cold ain’t no better. What do you say, 
Jimmie?” There was something pathetic in the 
appeal of the big, strong man to the little boy 
beside him. 

“She coughs more,” answered the boy, “an’ 
she’s gettin’ awful thin.” 

“Don’t you think it’s about time we got that 
doctor you told about?” 

“I don’t want no doctor,” whimpered Millie. 
“They sometimes take you away all wrapped in 
blankets an’ I couldn’t bear to leave the desert 
an’ Jimmie an’ you just when the oasis is be- 
ginnin’ to bloom.” 

“Well, well, we’ll see about that.” Black 
Peter rose. His face was very grave as he stood 
looking down at the two. The little girl lifted 
her pure, blue eyes to his ; the golden hair glinted 
and fell back away from her pallid brow. Some- 
thing ethereal in her appearance; something so 
frail and delicate that it seemed to have passed 
beyond the borders of the strictly material, for 


99 


Little People of the Dust 

the first time struck home to the consciousness 
of the man. For the first time fear gripped his 
heart. 

“I guess, Jimmie, we’ll have that doctor,” he 
said aloud, but in his soul he cried in a sudden 
panic of pain: “What if she should die? Oh, 
Lord, what if she should die?” 


CHAPrER IX 


T he days that followed were sad ones for 
the two tribes, and for Black Peter, who 
kept lonely watch, a time of suspense and 
tribulation. 

Little Millie was seized with a violent fever 
and lay in her little trundle bed which long ago 
the desert had yielded for her comfort, and her 
wide blue eyes were very bright and failed to 
recognize little Jimmie when he tiptoed in be- 
fore going off to school. 

Black Peter was sitting by her bed, his face 
scoured clean and his beard trimmed a little. In 
his right hand he held a damp cloth, with which 
every now and then he bathed the flushed fore- 
head. 

“She don’t know you, Jimmie,” he said, and 
his voice trembled strangely. “She’s very sick, 
I’m afraid.” 

In the silence that followed Jimmie could only 
stare with wide-open eyes at his stricken play- 
mate. 

“It makes me hurt here,” he whispered, point- 
ing to his throat. 

Black Peter nodded, “It does, Jimmie, it 
100 


Little People of the Dust loi 

does.” He cleared his own throat with an ef- 
fort and looked up: ‘‘Do you think you could 
get that doctor you spoke of, Jimmie, the one 
that comes to school?” 

The boy nodded. 

“Go, fetch him then, an’ before you go tell 
your mother to run in a minute. I want to see 
her.” 

Jimmie was gone in a second, shouting Black 
Peter’s request in through the open door of his 
own home. 

In obedience to the summons, his mother came 
slowly out of the house and passed into the one 
adjoining. 

The man looked up as she entered the room 
and hesitated upon the threshold. 

“Mary,” he said calmly, “she’s very sick an’ 
her mother couldn’t stay at home to-day to care 
for her.” He looked down at his big, rough 
hands. “They’re so coarse an’ unhandy an’ 
she’s so delicate, I can’t do for her by myself as 
I’d like to. Could you spare the day, Mary?” 

“It’d be little to do for you, Peter,” answered 
the woman. “I’ll gladly stay, and nights, too.” 

Black Peter rose. His eyes had grown soft 
and his hands trembled. As he passed the wet 
rag to Jimmie’s mother their fingers met. For 
a brief second his hand closed over hers. The 
woman started and drew back: 


102 Little People of the Dust 

“It won’t hurt, Mary, jes’ to touch your hand. 
There ain’t nothin’ wrong about that.” 

Before she could answer he was gone, with a 
fond look at the restless little sufferer on the 
cot. 

Meanwhile Jimmie had gained the wide 
streets of the city. His quick feet took him to 
the doctor’s door in no time, but to all his ring- 
ing no answer came and at last he turned away 
with dejected face. A stout elderly man was 
walking slowly along the other side of the street. 
He carried a cane in his hand and from the 
strong, nobly-lined face beamed a kindly geni- 
ality. 

“It’s Father Gillin,” said Jimmie, to himself. 
“He’ll help.” So he ran lightly across and 
touched the priest on the arm. 

It was a very diminutive and very unhappy 
small boy that met the mild, gray eyes of the 
missionary. 

“Bless me!” he cried, in surprise. “If it isn’t 
one of the tribes.” Then, as he noted the almost 
tearful appeal in the wizened face, he bent down. 
“What is it, Jimmie?” and this time the voice 
was very serious and his eyes troubled. 

“Millie’s sick. Father, an’ we want a doctor, 
but he ain’t in an’ I don’t know what to do.” 

“Millie sick?” echoed the missionary. “Lit- 
tle Millie. Is she very sick?” 


Little People of the Dust 103 

“She’s got a fever an’ she coughs,” answered 
Jimmie, with trembling lower lip, “an’ Black 
Peter says — Black Peter says — ” The grimy 
little fists fiew suddenly to his eyes. 

“There, there,” said the missionary. “Brace 
up now and be a little man. Sure, everybody 
gets sick, Jimmie,” he cried cheerfully. “I get 
sick myself once in a while.” 

Jimmie peered up at him over his fists, a weak 
little smile struggling into his face. 

The missionary met the rally with a smile of 
approval and thrust his hand back towards the 
pocket that existed somewhere in the tail of his 
coat and required a lot of dexterity to be arrived 
at gracefully. 

“Sure,” said the missionary, “whenever I try 
to get into that pocket I feel like a puppy chas- 
ing his own tail.” 

Jimmie laughed with glee, all his sorrow for- 
gotten for the moment. 

“But I’ll get it,” puflfed Father Gillin, “even 
if I am fat. There!” and he drew a bag of 
chocolate candies from its place of conceal- 
ment. “I’ve carried them around for a week, 
waiting the chance to call on you two, and now 
I guess you’ll have to eat them all by your- 
self.” 

“Won’t they keep?” cried Jimmie, in 
alarm. 


104 Little People of the Dust 

“They’ve kept so far,” answered the mission- 
ary. 

“Then I’ll save ’em,” said Jimmie, “ ’cause 
Millie’ll want ’em when she gets well.” 

The missionary patted him kindly on the 
shoulder, then took the grimy little hand in his 
own clean one, and didn’t seem to mind the dirt 
at all. 

As they walked the genial smile faded on the 
priest’s face and into his gray eyes crept the sad- 
ness that comes from long looking out on the 
sorrows of life. 

Around the next corner they found the doctor, 
a hale, hearty man who welcomed the priest with 
positive joy. 

“I’ve brought you a tribe,” said Father Gil- 
lin, “from the great desert, the Beaver Creek 
Dump. Little Millie’s sick with the fever and 
she’s littler than he is.” 

“I’ll go at once,” said the doctor, and a mo- 
ment later Jimmie and he were whisking away 
in a neat little rig, while the priest stood look- 
ing after them with half -humorous eyes. 

When Jimmie and the doctor arrived. Black 
Peter was sitting on the front porch, his head 
in his hands. He looked up as the rig came to 
a stop, then rose to his feet. 

“Right here, Doctor,” he said, in a low tone. 
“She’s there in the side room.” 


Little People of the Dust 105 

When the doctor had entered the house, he and 
Jimmie sat side by side on the porch and neither 
spoke. At last, after what seemed an intermin- 
able period, the silence and inactivity began to 
grow irksome to the naturally restless boy. He 
slipped down from his perch and stole noiselessly 
around till he stood under Millie’s window. 
He could plainly hear every word that was 
spoken. 

“She’ll be all right in a week or so,” said the 
doctor, in an even, cold tone. “Her present ill- 
ness is not serious, but I find evidence of a far 
more dangerous character. Her lungs are af- 
fected slightly, I think, and unless she is re- 
moved from this locality, away from the dust 
and dirt of this dump, she’ll die. There’s death 
for her out there.” 

“Death for her out there.” The words rang 
in Jimmie’s ears like bells. He turned so his 
keen little eyes could see a wide slice of the des- 
ert between the houses; a dust-devil was whirl- 
ing even then in an uneven dance across its acres. 
He watched it with dulling eyes. 

“Death!” The word, though not entirely new 
to him, suddenly assumed a staggering im- 
portance. He had always associated it with the 
bodies of stray animals that were found now and 
then stretched out upon the desert’s face. Now 
it suddenly became a living thing, which his 


io6 Little People of the Dust 

childish fancy saw moving in indefinite but ter- 
rifying shapes. 

“Death for her out there.” As he stood with 
his back pressed against the clap-boards of the 
house and his palms outspread against the brick 
foundation below, he wondered where death 
could be, if it was out there, and the age-old ques- 
tion, “Where?” which every human life has asked 
and for which no soul has ever found the answer, 
started to his lips. 

He crept back along the house, strangely sub- 
dued in spirit. The doctor was just giving 
Black Peter and his mother some final instruc- 
tions, promising to return the next day. 

When he had gone in a cloud of dust. Black 
Peter turned away and walked slowly out into 
the dump. His head was down, and even to 
Jimmie’s eyes it was apparent that he was very 
much depressed. The boy stole after him and 
overtook him close to the oasis. They both sat 
down under the great tent on the Persian rug. 

“Do you s’pose he meant the black pool down 
at the other end?” 

Jimmie’s eyes were studying the man’s face 
hopefully. 

“Meant what?” Black Peter questioned 
sharply. 

“The black pool. Did he think she’d slip in 
there an’ get drownded?” 


Little People of the Dust 107 

“Who said she’d slip in?” Black Peter was 
plainly mystified. 

“The doctor. He said there was death for 
her out here, an’ I thought it might be the black 
pool. We could fill it in, couldn’t we, or put a 
log in it so’s she could hang on?” 

The dark face of Black Peter smiled grimly. 
“He didn’t mean that, Jimmie. He meant 
them.” He pointed a long finger at a dust- 
devil that was whirling like a dancing dervish 
on the open waste. 

“Them?” Jimmie’s voice was incredulous. 
“Thems can’t hurt her. They can’t even hurt 
me.” 

When Black Peter had finished the long ex- 
planation that he launched into, the boy sat very 
wide-eyed and very still. 

“She’ll have to leave the desert, then. Won’t 
she?” He glanced up at the man with cloud- 
ing eyes, “An’ just you an’ me’ll be left, an’ the 
oasis an’ the pyramid.” 

It was too much. He burst into a torrent of 
childish tears. 

“There, there, Jimmie,” soothed Black Peter, 
patting his head heavily with his big hand. 
“She ain’t gone yet, an’ there ain’t no tellin’ 
when she’s goin’, for there ain’t no money to send 
her.” 

Jimmie ceased his crying. “But she’ll die.” 


io8 Little People of the Dust 

Black Peter’s face hardened and his red, in- 
flamed eyes winked furiously; then he rose and 
sauntered heavily off to the heaps of rubbish 
that awaited his all-searching rake. 

“She can’t go ’cause there ain’t no money an’ 
she’ll die if she stays,” muttered Jimmie, looking 
after him, and the thought stayed with him many 
days after that even when little Millie was play- 
ing at his side again. A little thinner, a little 
paler, but more beautiful than ever. 

When Jimmie returned to school, after over 
a week’s absence, he was coldly received by Miss 
Evans. Even the polite excuse he bore from 
his mother did not seem to mitigate the wrath 
that had been slowly gathering. 

“Who is this Millie?” she asked, transfixing 
him with a look. 

“She’s my friend,” he murmured. 

“Well, after this, young man, you let her fa- 
ther and mother take care of her.” 

“She ain’t got no father,” said Jimmie. 

“Well, her mother, then.” 

“Her mother works every day,” answered the 
boy, “an’ she’d lose her job if she didn’t show 
up.” 

“The idea,” snorted Miss Evans. “Don’t you 
know you’ve spoiled the class average for a 
whole month?” 


Little People of the Dust 109 

This awful result of his absence had never ap- 
pealed to Jimmie before. His heart sank. 

‘T couldn’t help it,” he whimpered. ‘‘Black 
Peter told me to stay.” 

“Go to your seat,” she commanded severely, 
“and remember, Jimmie Jones,” she added, re- 
ferring to a blunder he had made a week pre- 
vious, “that George Washington isn’t the 
Sphinx.” 

There was a twinkle in the gray eyes that ill- 
became their sternness, as her mind, in spite of 
herself, conjured up the ridiculous likeness be- 
tween the great stone image and the father of 
his country. 


CHAPT^ER X 


A nd so the days of bloom had come and a 
glory with every opening flower had risen 
from the earth to transform the small 
oasis and fill it with visions of delight. 

When the two tribes had left the spot the 
evening before, the great circle of scarlet pop- 
pies was hanging full of pouting buds and they 
confidently expected to find a wall of living 
flame around the rock when they visited it in 
the morning. What was their surprise and dis- 
may to find only the long green stalks, standing 
in grim array, beheaded as it were, and not a 
blossom to be seen. The yellow poppies and the 
pink-fringed ones were undisturbed, and even 
with the loss of their more gorgeous brothers lit 
up the oasis with subdued haloes of circling 
blossoms. 

“Oh, what wicked, wicked boy done that?” 
cried Millie, and she looked at Jimmie with such 
horror-stricken blue eyes that he blushed and 
could not answer. 

“Did you do it, Jimmie Jones?” 

“Me?” he cried, recovering his breath with dif- 
ficulty. “What’d I pick ’em for? Don’t I love 

no 


Little People of the Dust ill 

’em as much as you? Huh!” There was a 
world of disgust in the last exclamation. 

“But who did?” The question was a long 
quaver, for the blue eyes were filling fast with 
tears. “Not one left. Not one to look at!” 

The tears came to her relief and she lifted her 
pink frock and covered her face in an agony 
as intense as ever assails those older in years and 
experience. 

Jimmie could only look on with a pained ex- 
pression in his wizened face. Like many far his 
senior, he did not know exactly what to do for 
a woman in tears. He could only look down at 
the devastated oasis and shift slowly from one 
foot to the other. 

“If I ever kech ’im,” he muttered, “I’ll punch 
’im in the eye, I will.” 

“Punch ’im in two eyes,” wailed Millie, “so’s 
he can’t never see to come here again.” 

“If you won’t cry no more, Milhe, I’ll get 
Black Peter to eat ’im alive. That’s what he 
says he’d do to anyone that’d hurt Billie.” 

The new idea affected a wonderful transfor- 
mation in the girl. She lifted her golden head 
from the blue folds of her frock and peeped over 
the edge of her upheld hands with eyes that were 
still mournful but glinted a little with returning 
good-humor. 

“That’d serve’m right,” she said quite calmly. 


112 Little People of the Dust 

“He was mean an’ naughty to pick all our 
flowers.” 

“They ain’t all gone. Only the red ones,” an- 
swered Jimmie. “Maybe the woman what 
comes to the dump nights with the pretty roses 
and things took ’em.” 

“The woman!” echoed Millie. “Maybe — she 
— did.” She seemed thoughtful. “If she 
took’m,” she added, “I don’t care, ’cause I’ve had 
lots o’ her flowers.” 

Black Peter had seen the tribes from afar and 
the sight of Millie’s face buried in her frock had 
drawn him to the spot with as much alacrity as 
his shuffling gait would permit. 

“What’s the matter here?” he yelled, when at 
some distance. “Ain’t them flowers cornin’ up 
to scratch?” 

“Somebody’s took’m!” Jimmie called back. 

“Took’m. Good Lord! Who’d rob two chil- 
dren of their posies?” 

Tbe man stared down in consternation at the 
scene of destruction. Then he stooped and ex- 
amined a beheaded stalk. “Nipped right off 
clean to the top,” he said aloud, to himself. 
“Looks like with a scissors. Every last one the 
same. Well, I’ll be durned!” 

He stood up and looked over the acres of 
the desert with a sweeping glance of his inflamed 
eyes; then he fell to minutely examining the 


Little People of the Dust 113 

ground. Suddenly he paused — his gaze glued 
to a mark in the soft soil; a three-toed mark of 
unusual size; a smile of dawning comprehension 
lit his features and he glanced furtively up to- 
wards the gnarled, old apple tree and the fluffy 
black ball that sat on it apparently fast asleep. 

‘‘ J es’ mosey over to that apple tree,” he com- 
manded, “an’ see what you can And. Look 
kinder close now, on the twigs an’ on the 
ground.” 

A little bewildered the tribes obeyed and 
Black Peter slowly followed. 

A shout from Jimmie, who had run on ahead, 
confirmed the suspicion that had entered his 
mind. 

“The apple tree’s all in bloom,” the boy cried. 
“The most beautiful apple blossoms in the 
world.” 

Millie paused in rapturous delight at the sight 
that greeted her beauty-loving eyes. Every 
forked twig on the few branches the tree still 
had bore up a great brilliant blossom. Lying 
as each did in a cluster of new leaves, the com- 
bined effect bestowed a fairy-like appearance of 
youth to the tree which in reality was so old 
that it seemed doubled and knotted with rheu- 
matics. 

“Apple blossoms,” snorted Black Peter. 
“Them’s poppies.” 


114 Little People of the Dust 

The eyes of both astonished children were fixed 
instantly upon his dark face. 

“Poppies!” they echoed in unison. 

“Yes, poppies,” reiterated Black Peter. 
“That durned Billie took a fancy to their looks 
an’ decorated his home with ’em.” 

At the mention of his name, the old crow, who 
paid little attention to the three below, whom 
he had learned to know very well, shook himself 
vigorously, smoothed out his feathers, ducked 
his head energetically and cawed, apparently 
with delight. 

“Good-mornin’,” said Black Peter reluctantly, 
as though in answer to the crow’s salutation. 
“You’ve done a durned mean trick this time. 
Bad as stealin’ the buttons off a man’s shirt.” 

Billie shook himself with ruffled feathers, then 
subsided. 

“Yes, you did, you old rascal. You stole ’em 
off my shirt an’ I seen you do it.” 

“Caw, caw,” came from the tree, and Billie 
rose on his toes and fiapped off in heavy flight. 

“Are you goin’ to eat ’im alive. Black Peter?” 
asked Millie, looking eagerly up at him. 

“N-no,” he said. “I’m afraid even my stom- 
ach wouldn’t be tough enough to go old Billie, 
an’ besides Billie jes’ took them posies ’cause he 
loved their looks. He didn’t do it to be mean. 
No, sir, you can see that the way he decked this 


Little People of the Dust 115 

tree out. My sakes! I sometimes thinks that 
bird must o’ been an artist in some other life, 
he loves purty things so.” 

“But he’ll steal ’em all the time,” cried Jim- 
mie. 

“No, he won’t. You jes’ wait. I’ll have a 
talk with him an’ he won’t bother them posies 
again. Me’n Billie’s had talks before. Why, 
there was times when there wasn’t nobody in this 
dump for days but me’n Billie, an’ of course, 
seein’ each other all the time an’ havin’ many 
points in common, we come to some very good 
understandin’s. Oh, Billie’s all right. You 
jes’ leave ’im to me.” 

It was several days before the oasis gave 
promise of more scarlet poppies, and Black 
Peter rose early on the day of fulfillment and 
seated himself just outside the door of his hut, 
where he could get a very good view of the lit- 
tle garden plot. 

As the first beams of the sun lit up the great 
rock and its surroundings, he caught a glow of 
warm color that seemed to hang over the gar- 
den plot, and knew that all promises had been 
fulfilled. 

Another keen eye had seen the same thing, for 
old Billie moved nervously on his perch and 
cocked his head first on one side and then on 
the other. He seemed to debate with himself 


li6 Little People of the Dust 

regarding the propriety of indulging his desires, 
but at last, temptation overcoming him, he rose 
on his toes and flew with a steady, subdued 
“flap, flap” of his heavy wings straight for the 
great rock. He lit on it with a little bounce that 
brought him to the very edge of the sheer side 
beneath one of the flourishing palms. Here he 
stood, his head sunk back in his feathers as 
though he intended merely to take a little nap 
in congenial surroundings, but a close observer 
would have noted how his beady eyes moved 
eagerly from one flaming blossom to the 
next. 

All going well, he recovered from his apathy 
and craned his neck over the rock’s edge, then 
hopped lightly down amid the blossoms. He 
set to work at once. “Snip, snip,” went his 
powerful beak and a blossom tumbled at each 
snip. 

When he was so busily engaged that he had 
forgotten his customary caution. Black Peter 
sneaked away from the hut down into the long 
ravine that led to the black pool and up behind 
the great rock itself. He carried a huge chunk 
of soft blue mud in his right hand and was up 
out of the ravine and upon the old crow before 
the latter realized his presence. The thick mud 
was poised in the air, then hurled and struck old 
Billie with such astounding suddenness that he 


Little People of the Dust 117 

rolled over with a feeble “caw” of protest and 
lay for a brief second flat on his back. 

“There, you old rascal,” shouted Black 
Peter. “Now, you stay away from them 
posies.” 

There was a great scramble and rush as Bil- 
lie regained his wits and rose in flight. Black 
Peter stood looking after him. 

“I hated to do it,” he muttered, “but he 
mustn’t be breakin’ the kiddies’ hearts, especially 
when he can see them poppies jes’ as well from 
that old apple tree.” 

Billie had perched himself on his polished 
limb, and, with an indignant “caw” now and 
then, voicing his state of mind, was diligently 
removing with beak and claw the evidences of 
his humiliation. 

After that, whenever the scarlet poppies were 
especially tantalizing. Old Billie turned his head 
resolutely away and became interested in some 
distant object on the other side of the desert. 

Black Peter, however, did not relax his vigi- 
lance, for he knew how sore the temptation 
was, and every once in a while with the aid of the 
two tribes, whom he lifted aloft in his strong 
arms, he decked the old apple tree in just the 
way that Billie himself would have done, much 
to that worthy’s rather noisy delight. 

They were returning from one of these excur- 


ii8 Little People of the Dust 

sions one afternoon when Black Peter noticed a 
slender woman standing by the oasis looking 
down at its loveliness with fascinated eyes. 

“It’s mother,” shouted Jimmie. “She prom- 
ised me she’d come.” 

Black Peter stopped in his tracks; his heart 
bounding in his breast. The two children had 
run on before. The woman looked up; caught 
his bewildered gaze, and smiled. She was piti- 
fully thin and frail. Her long auburn hair was 
coiled in heavy braids around her head. That 
she was one of the many such who sufF er day by 
day under nameless wrongs was painfully evi- 
dent from the premature wrinkles that radiated 
from her eyes and seamed her brow. 

The children, after greeting her, had run 
off to the pyramid and were busy scaling its 
sides. 

“Isn’t it beautiful, Peter?” she said, in a low 
voice as he came up. 

The man did not speak. He could only stand 
and stare at her with hungry eyes. 

“Ain’t you got nothin’ to say to me, Peter?” 

“I’m glad you come out at last,” he said. 
“You don’t know how glad I am, Mary.” 

“You’ve been awful good to me’n Jimmie, 
Peter.” 

“That’s jes’ about all I live for,” he answered. 

The woman’s eyes gazed into his so mourn- 


Little People of the Dust 119 

fully and with such a tenderness that he took a 
step towards her. 

“Mary,” he cried, his voice shaking, “you 
know without me tellin’ you that there ain’t 
nothin’ in the world for me but you. Could you, 
would you, jes’ to make the loneliness in my 
heart a little easier, tell me — ^tell me — ” His 
voice trailed off in silence, but the appeal in his 
eyes was too evident to be misunderstood. 

The woman dropped her head quickly. “I 
made a terrible mistake,” she said, in a voice 
so low that he scarcely heard it. “I found it out 
before I was married a year, before even Jim- 
mie came. I never loved him like — ^like — ” 

“Like me!” cried the man, with a triumphant 
ring in his voice. 

“It was his money and his fine clothes, I 
guess,” she stumbled on, “but I’ve paid for all 
them things, long ago.” 

“An’ you don’t love him no more?” he pleaded. 

She shook her head. 

Black Peter raised his hands to his face. 

“I can breathe now,” he cried, “I can live. I 
never knew; a man could be so happy on this 
earth. Oh, Mary, Mary, jes’ let me hear you 
say jes’ once like you used to, that you love me. 
Jes’ once. It won’t mean nothin’ but words, 
jes’ words, hut it’ll be openin’ heaven to me.” 

“Peter, would that be right?” 


120 Little People of the Dust 

“Jes’ words, words,” he begged hoarsely, 
“only words.” . 

“I love you, Pieter. IVe always loved you, 
and there ain’t nothin’ goin’ to make me quit 
but death.” 

When the two children returned from the pyr- 
amid he was sitting, head in hands, looking down 
into the oasis. 

“I jes’ seen a toad in there,” he said, as they 
swarmed over him. 

“In the wasis?” cried Millie. 

“Yep,” he answered, “he’s under the rock 
now.” 

“Oh, Black Peter, you’ll have to chase ’im 
away.” 

The man looked up. “He was jes’ enjoyin’ 
hisself,” he answered, “a-sittin’ lazy-like on the 
ground stretchin’ his legs. He won’t hurt 
nothin’ an’ he’s happy.” 

“But I don’t like ’em,” insisted Millie, “an’ 
he’ll spoil the wasis.” 

“There ain’t no garden fit to have,” said 
Peter, “ ’less it has a toad in it. No, no, let ’im 
alone. He’s happy.” 

He rose and stretched his arms and smiled: 
“A^’ I’m happy; let’s dance.” 

And the three joined hands and frolicked 
around, to the intense disgust and annoyance of 
Billie, the crow. 


CHAPTER XI 


I T was two heart-struck tribes that stood 
looking down at the oasis one Saturday 
morning in early July. The day before the 
spot had been glorious with shimmering green 
leaves and brilliant here and there with patches 
of deep crimson or vivid yellow or pink-fringed 
white where the poppies had burst into bloom. 
On the gray rock the two palms had thrived and 
thrown out their broad hand-like leaves with the 
fingers curiously limp and moving with every 
breeze. 

To-day a scene of desolation presented itself. 
In the night a great wind from the west had 
blown in upon the acres of the desert, and 
through the long hours of darkness had sheeted 
itself with dust and whirled away with a great 
rattling of blinds on the two little cottages and 
a wild sighing of the far-sweeping branches of 
the old willow. In its wake had come desola- 
tion and ruin. The great tent, which had be- 
come associated with so many happy hours, had 
been torn from its fastenings and blown far 
away across the waste, to wrap itself in lu- 
dicrous fashion around the trunk of the gnarled, 


122 Little People of the Dust 

old apple tree. The palms were broken and 
their leaves frayed, and over the oasis itself had 
settled a dark coating of plaster and ashes which 
had completely changed its appearance of vig- 
orous growth. Out of the grayness of the 
ground the various plants lifted their wind- 
broken leaves and frayed blossoms with de- 
jected apathy. 

It was some time before the tribes could 
bring themselves to a realization of the full ex- 
tent of the disaster. They stood staring down 
upon the ruin with wide-open eyes and parted 
lips. Suddenly Millie burst into a loud wail, 
and Jimmie followed suit in a lower key. 

“They’re all dead,” wailed the girl. “There 
ain’t no wasis any more, an’ the tent’s gone.” 

“An’ the palms is broke,” answered Jimmie, 
“an’ that’s where it hits me, ’cause I can’t see ’em 
when they ain’t there like you can.” 

The sight of the two desolate tribes standing 
on the edge of the ruin had attracted the attention 
of Black Peter. If the truth be told, he had 
visited the spot in the night, fearful of the exact 
consequences that the morning revealed. 

“Never mind, never mind,” he solaced, as he 
came up. “I’ll get the old tent again an’ strap 
her down this time so she’ll never break loose, 
an’ we can scrape the ashes off the ground an’ 
wash the posies an’ — ” 


Little People of the Dust 123 

‘‘But you can’t never fix the palms, Black 
Peter,” wailed Jimmie; “you can’t fix ’em, 
never.” 

“Look here,” said the man, blinking his red 
eyes, “don’t you suppose the wind ever blows 
on the Sarah Desert an’ drifts the sand in on the 
oasises jes’ like it did here?” 

It was a master stroke of logic that escaped 
his lips. The clenched fists came down from the 
eyes and the eyes themselves brightened, then 
danced with the full joy of the new adventure 
which had made their desert so much like the real 
desert away over there. 

“I’ll bet a nickel,” went on Black Peter, 
thrusting his hand in his pocket and pulling out 
a penny, “that there’s somethin’ said in the won- 
derful book about storms like this’n.” 

“They is,” cried Millie excitedly, and she took 
the book from under her arm and rapidly turned 
the pages. “There.” Three heads peered into 
the book. Before them was the level floor of 
the desert, tawny and wind-ridged, sweeping up 
to a pile of mossed rocks which showed green 
here and there in the protected crannies. 
Higher up the bodies of great palm trees stood 
revealed in black against a purple sky, their fan- 
shaped tops spreading outward in peaceful lines. 
But in and about their bases was heaped the sand 
in wind-rows and sharp-shaped drifts. 


124 Little People of the Dust 

“What does it say?” asked Black Peter. 

Little Millie read the few lines beneath with 
halting, stammering voice. 

“ ‘An’ sometimes the great monsoon comes 
from the south an’ sweeps up the sand of the 
desert like a yellow sheet. Then there is sor- 
row an’ sufferin’, for the wells are filled an’ the 
oasis changed in a night from a place of rest an’ 
refreshment to a barren spot with only the 
trunks of the palm-trees to suggest its vanished 
glories.’ ” 

“There! Jes’ what I said,” exclaimed Black 
Peter. “Jes’ ezactly what I said. Now let’s 
see. First we need that old hoe; then we’ll jes’ 
get to work an’ scrape all the sand right off an’ 
then we’ll get some water an’ wash every lastin’ 
one of these posies. Jes’ give’m a bath an’ 
they’ll be as green an’ prosperous lookin’ as be- 
fore. Jimmie, you get some water.” As the 
boy started off. Black Peter followed him with 
speculative eyes. “An’ say, Jimmie,” he called 
after him, “bring that shovel that’s under the 
porch.” 

“What for?” asked Millie, who was already 
on her knees carefully stripping a geranium of a 
newspaper which had wrapped itself around it. 

“Well, you see,” said Black Peter, “it’s been 
nine years since I come to this dump an’ there’s 
a powerful lot of changes since then. There 


Little People of the Dust 125 

wasn’t no dump right here in them days an’ the 
ground underneath was all covered with grass 
an’ posies, violets an’ things like that, an’ right 
up against that rock was as perty a nest o’ ferns 
as I ever see, jes’ a-leanin’ over a clear little 
spring of the sweetest water I ever tasted. 
Well, las’ night I got to thinkin’ it was a long 
way over there for you little tribes to be a-car- 
ryin’ the water for them posies, an’ suddenly I 
got thirsty, my throat jes’ crackin’ thirsty for a 
drink o’ that old spring. Course you don’t un- 
derstand, but somehow that spring’s got mixed 
up with the days when I was younger, an’ to 
taste its water again would be jes’ like livin’ over 
again the times when I sprawled right down on 
my stomick lappin’ it up.” 

Little Millie was sitting back on her heels re- 
garding him with serious eyes. Apparently the 
news about the spring had made little impres- 
sion upon her mind. 

“How old am I, Black Peter?” she asked. 

“You’re — you’re eight years old last May. 
Ain’t I told you a dozen times?” 

“I keep forgettin’,” she answered. “Was you 
here when I was horned?” 

Black Peter nodded his head. 

“Where’s my papa?” 

Black Peter suddenly stopped hoeing and 
looked around at her with startled eyes. 


126 Little People of the Dust 

“Are you my papa?” 

“Me?” The hoe dug convulsively, so deeply 
into the earth that it nearly severed a geranium. 
“Me? N-no. I ain’t your papa, leastwise not 
the way people generally understand the meanin’ 
o’ that word.” 

“Then, why ain’t I never had no papa like 
Jimmie an’ the rest at school?” 

“As I was sayin’, I’m a-goin’ to take that 
shovel an’ dig right down there near the rock 
an’ find that spring again an’ wall it all up, so’s 
it’ll keep fresh an’ clean, an’, instead of runnin’ 
half a mile for water, you kin jes’ dip your pail 
down there — an’ — an’ — I kin have a good long 
drink now an’ then myself an’ jes’ the same as 
renew my youth.” 

“But — ” insisted Millie. 

“Look out there,” cried Peter. “My land’s 
sakes! You put your foot right on that 
poppy.” 

In the tender care immediately bestowed upon 
the injured plant the little girl forgot the quest 
for information that was evidently so distasteful 
to the man. 

The project of digging for the spring ap- 
pealed to Jimmie’s fancy with a force that sent 
him cavorting around the oasis like a young colt, 
and all during the long and arduous operation 
he sat as near as possible with his eyes glued 


Little People of the Dust 127 

to the bottom of the hole, waiting for the first 
sign of water. 

Suddenly Black Peter’s shovel burst right 
through a thin shell of earth and a black, muddy 
stream welled up in a boiling torrent. 

“There she is!” he shouted. “I knowed she 
was there.” 

“But it’s dirty,” cried Millie, “an’ you said it 
was clear an’ sparkled like diamonds.” 

“You jes’ wait. It’s ’most like some people 
I ever see — they’re jes’ somethin’ awful when 
they’re riled up, but jes’ let’m alone an’ they 
calm down an’ clear off an’ are as sweet as any- 
thin’ can be.” 

He crawled out of the wide hole he had dug 
and went away, returning in a few moments roll- 
ing a huge section of earthen water-pipe. This 
he inserted, end up, over the center of the spring 
and sunk it till its upper rim was a little below 
the level of the black flood; then he dug a drain 
away into the desert to the edge of the long 
ravine that led down to the black pool. 

“Now, while I git that tent an’ put it up again, 
you jes’ watch that spring an’ see what hap- 
pens.” 

The two did as directed. For a long time 
the flow of dark, dirty water continued, then im- 
perceptibly the shade of its color lightened, 
growing at first amber, then pale yellow, then 


128 Little People of the Dust 

gray, and at last became a limpid white with a 
touch of blue somewhere hidden in its depths. 
The two children clapped their hands in raptur- 
ous delight. 

“Just like a well in the desert, where the cam- 
els come an’ drink. Can’t you see ’em, Jim- 
mie?” Millie had her eyes closed. “There they 
are, with their long, snaky necks a-bendin’ down 
an’ their eyes a-rollin’ when they drink, an’ one 
of ’em’s kneelin’. Can’t you see ’em?” 

Jimmie closed his eyes and wrinkled his nose. 
“Nope,” he said sadly, after a long pause, “I 
can’t see nothin’ but dust an’ clouds an’ dirty 
lookin’ spots with rims all around ’em.” 

“I wisht you could,” said Millie sadly. 
“They’s such nice camels.” 

“Ain’t there no picture in the book?” asked 
Jimmie hopefully, “ ’cause if there is I could 
look at that while you was a-seein’ ’em your 
way.” 

In a trice the book was opened and the pages 
eagerly turned till at last they came to a won- 
derfully well-done picture of the oasis of Siwah 
Shargieh. 

“And here,” read Millie slowly, “is the fa- 
mous Fountain of the Sun.” 

“Hurrah!” shouted Jimmie, “we’ll call it the 
Fountain of the Sun. Black Peter, Black 
Peter,” he shouted, running to meet him, “we’re 



“ Xow You Jes’ Watch that Spring and See What Happens” 








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Little People of the Dust 129 

goin’ to call the spring the Fountain of the 
Sun.” 

“That’s a sure good name,” said Black Peter, 
and he chuckled as he reset the tent and made 
it tight and fast against the ravages of future 
winds. 

The moments sped and the sun was high in 
heaven, a thousand little suns dancing in the 
boiling spring. Black Peter had had his drink 
and renewed his youth and the plants were in 
the process of being washed one by one, when 
Mr. Hodges appeared on the rim of the desert. 
He came straight to the oasis and his eyes glad- 
dened with pleasure as they caught sight of the 
spring, which by now had folded a bright strip 
of blue sky and a fleecy cloud in its circling arms. 

“Peter,” he said slowly, “it’s like living my life 
over again to see that spring once more. Many’s 
the drink I had from it in days that are long 
gone by.” 

He bent down and took the rusty can which 
Black Peter had provided. As he dipped it, the 
pool seemed to break into a smile of hearty wel- 
come and recognition. He drank long and 
deeply with half-closed eyes. 

“Ah,” he sighed, smacking his lips, “it’s the 
very same. I’ll come now every day, for there’s 
healing in the waters of the old spring.” 

“Just look at the palms!” 


130 Little People of the Dust 

“Bless me, I thought so,” said Mr. Hodges. 
“But never you mind, little man. There’re 
more where they came from, lots more.” 

It seemed as though all who came into the des- 
ert in those days fell under the charm the tribes 
had created, for Mr. Hodges was down on his 
knees in a moment helping to bathe the plants 
and restore them to their former beauty.” 

Now that fresh aid had come. Black Peter 
drank deeply again at the spring and went back 
to his work. It was noon before Mr. Hodges 
prepared to go, too; then he straightened his 
aching back and looked down longingly at Mil- 
lie’s golden curls. 

“If it could only be,” he said, half to himself. 

“What could be, Mr. Hodges?” Then, as 
he did not answer, “Do grown people want 
things they can’t have, Mr. Hodges?” 

“More than little ones,” he answered, smiling. 

She clasped her hands and her eyes showed 
disappointment. “Mother tells me that some 
day I’ll get everythin’ I want, an’ I thought that 
would be when I was grown up.” 

“And what do you want now?” Mr. Hodges 
sat down and took her on his knee. 

“I’ve only got one dress,” she said modestly, 
“an’ it’s tored.” 

“And if I get you a new dress, would you be 
very glad?” 


Little People of the Dust 131 

“I think I’d cry,” she said, an abstracted look 
creeping into her eyes. “I think my heart would 
hurt so I would cry.” 

Mr. Hodges did not answer. When he spoke 
his voice shook: 

“Did you know that I once had a little girl 
just like you?” 

“With curls like hern?” asked Jimmie. “An’ 
blue eyes?” Jimmie seemed disappointed. “I 
thought there wasn’t no more like hem.” 

“But there was once,” said Mr. Hodges, “and 
I used to hold her on my knee, too, just like 
this.” 

“An’ where is she now?” asked Millie ea- 
gerly. 

“She’s grown up and left all her little golden 
curls and her pretty blue eyes in the years of 
long ago.” 

“But she’s got hair an’ eyes now, ain’t she?” 
asked Jimmie. 

Mr. Hodges smiled faintly. “Oh, yes, Jim- 
mie, she has; but her hair is gray now and her 
eyes are not as blue as they once were.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Millie sympathetically. 

“So am I,” said Mr. Hodges. He rose. “I 
was thinking perhaps some of the pretty dresses 
she wore might fit a little girl that I know. I’ll 
see.” 

Millie clapped her hands and danced with joy. 


132 Little People of the Dust 

'‘You won’t forget?” 

Mr. Hodges shook his head. 

“An’ you’ll take me to see your little girl then, 
won’t you? If I look like her, maybe she’d like 
to see me!” 

Mr. Hodges opened his lips to answer, then 
closed them again. “I’ll bring over those palms 
this evening,” he called back from a distance. 
“Good-by.” 

He stopped under the old apple tree to look 
up at Billie, who sat apparently unconscious of 
his existence on his polished perch. 

“You’ve been sitting that way a long time,” 
said Mr. Hodges. 

Billie ruffled his feathers as though annoyed, 
then leaned forward and slid off the limb with 
a slow movement of his wide-spread wings. 


CHAPrER XII 


A nd Black Peter was lonely. The flames 
of his wood fire played fitfully before him, 
lighting his dark countenance with a 
ruddy glow. He sat, head in hands, staring at 
their capricious antics, and the short shadow of 
his nose dodged first to this, then to the other, 
side of his swarthy face. 

Since the day when Jimmie had eaten Billie’s 
crust, his soul had been tortured by old memo- 
ries and he had sat long evenings brooding over 
the unkind trick that Fate had played upon him, 
but the little interview he had had with Jim- 
mie’s mother at the oasis had changed all this. 
In the knowledge of her love he had found peace, 
and to-night all the wild jealousy that had at 
first possessed him, even the longings which his 
heart had known for so many years, — all — all 
seemed dead and still. 

In the intense calm that had come upon his 
soul he experienced a great loneliness. It was 
as though he had sat days and days upon the 
shore of a mighty sea and heard the incessant 
roaring of the surf until his nerves had grown 
frantic with the din, and then experienced a 
133 


134 Little People of the Dust 

blessed moment of relief when the noise was 
stilled. 

As the moments passed and the sounds of the 
great city that lay crouched beyond lessened and 
lessened, his loneliness increased and his eyes 
lifted from the leaping fire and focused them- 
selves upon the twinkling light that came from 
the front window of Jimmie’s house. 

Suddenly his eyes softened and he rose up; a 
resolve, one that had come more often of late 
than ever before, formed itself in his mind. 

“I’ll get the tribes,” he muttered, as he strode 
along. “They ain’t been out to hear a story 
since last week, an’ maybe — maybe I’ll jes’ see 
a glimpse of her.” As he came close to the cot- 
tages he gave a peculiar whistle and peered anx- 
iously in through the open window of the nearer 
one. 

Jimmie’s mother was nowhere to be seen. 
There was a moment’s wait, then he whistled 
again; this time the answer came in two slam- 
ming doors as Jimmie and Millie rushed out on 
their respective porches. 

“It’s me,” called the man cheerily, “your old 
Black Peter. Run in an’ ask your mammas if 
you can’t go out on the desert to my camp an’ 
hear a story I got to tell. 

Both children vanished with cries of delight, 
and almost immediately reappeared. 


Little People of the Dust 135 

“Yep ! I can go !” cried Millie, seizing his arm 
with both her hands and dancing up and down 
on her toes till her golden hair fluttered around 
her head. 

“So can I,” cried Jimmie, as he scuttled for 
the broken fence. 

“I was so lonesome out there,” answered 
Black Peter, “an’ the night seemed so empty an’ 
dark, I jes’ had to come an’ get my little com- 
forts.” 

“And now,” cried Millie gayly, as she seated 
herself with a pretty flounce upon an inverted 
cracker box, “what you goin’ to tell us?” 

“Oh, about Billie, of course,” answered Black 
Peter, as he stirred up the Are, making the shad- 
ows of the two tribes dance in crude mimicry be- 
hind their backs. 

“Billie?” said Jimmie. “I saw him pick up 
somethin’ bright to-day, an old piece of glass, I 
guess, an’ I laid down on the rock an’ watched 
him.” 

“He didn’t go straight for his hidin’-place, 
did he?” questioned Black Peter. “No, sir, he’s 
too wise for that; he jes’ snooped around the wil- 
lows over there by the black pool an’ acted as 
though he didn’t care a cuss an’ was jes’ carryin’ 
that piece of glass around because he didn’t 
have nothin’ else to do an’ was expectin’ to drop 
it every minute, eh?” 


136 Little People of the Dust 

“Yep,” said Jimmie, “but I kept my eye on 
him an’ pretty soon he flied back an’ stood on 
the old tree lookin’ all around, an’ then ducked 
his head in that old owl’s hole in the trunk, an’ 
when he pulled it out there wasn’t no glass in 
his mouth.” 

“You sure did kech him, Jimmie; that’s where 
he keeps his treasures. That’s his safe I spoke 
of an’, land sakes ! I wouldn’t wonder it was full 
of diamonds.” 

“Diamonds?” cried Millie. 

“Well, no,” laughed Black Peter, “I was jes’ 
foolin’. Now, look here!” He suddenly faced 
them. “I don’t want either of you to ever go 
over there lookin’ for diamonds. If Billie was 
to kech you, he’d jes’ naturally pick your eyes 
out, an’ besides I don’t want the poor old fellow 
robbed of nothin’ he likes. He ain’t got many 
pleasures. I can sure sympathize with Billie.” 

When the fire had been fixed to the man’s sat- 
isfaction, he sat down on his old can and rubbed 
his rough hands together between his knees. 

“The story I’m goin’ to tell you about that old 
crow happened a good long while ago; jes’ a 
year, I think, before Millie was born. There 
was an old Irishman an’ his wife livin’ where 
Millie lives now an’ he certainly was a crusty 
old cuss. Never seen no good in nothin’, not 
even God, ’cause he was always complainin’ 


Little People of the Dust 137 

what He’d done to him. Well, once he was in- 
vited to a swell ball that the policemen was givin’ 
an’ he got ready to go, a-gettin’ all his fancy 
togs out of the closet where they’d been laid 
away with camphor balls so’s the moths wouldn’t 
eat’m. I guess he was a high-flier once, ’cause 
one of the togs he dug up was a grand waistcoat, 
pure white — ” 

“What’s a waistcoat. Black Peter?” broke in 
Millie. 

“A waistcoat? Oh, it’s jes’ a fancy sort of 
dress that you button around your stomick when 
you want to look real swell. Well, as I was 
sayin’, it was white, with little pink roses all 
over it, an’ had a set of the most glitterin’ brass 
buttons I ever saw. I think they was brass, 
but may be they was gold. Well, anyhow, it 
smelled so much of camphor balls his wife told 
’im to hang it out on the line an’ air it ; so he did. 
He hung it out in the mornin’, an’ nobody 
thought to bring it in till he came home, an’ 
he didn’t think of it neither till he’d put on his 
black pants an’ high white collar an’ new silk 
tie. He was jes’ slidin’ sideways into his swal- 
low-tail coat when his wife hollered fit to kill: 
‘Land sakes!’ she yelled, ‘where’s yer waistcoat? 
Ain’t you goin’ to wear your pink-an’-white 
waistcoat ?’ 

“I was boardin’ there at the time an’ I 


138 Little People of the Dust 

couldn’t help a-laughin’ at the astonished look on 
his face when he glances down an’ sees only his 
biled shirt across his bosom.” 

“ ‘I purty near fergot it/ sez he, rather sour. 
‘It’s out on the line airin’.’ 

“We could see he was gettin’ grumpy, so his 
wife ran out an’ fetched the article in. He took 
it kinder careless an’ whipped it on an’ started 
to button it up. Suddenly his eyes stuck out 
an’ he bobbed his head down and stared at that 
waistcoat as though it was a stranger he’d never 
seen before. 

“Then he began to cuss an’ rant around pealin’ 
the article off an’ holdin’ it up. 

“ ‘Where’s the buttons gone ofF’n that?’ he 
yelled, borin’ his wife with his eyes. 

“ ‘Why, land sakes !’ she yelled, grabbin’ the 
vest. ‘Ef every last one o’ them gold buttons 
ain’t cut off.’ 

“A madder pair I never see. They jes’ 
chawed and chawed, a-guessin’ an’ a-cussin’ an’ 
wonderin’ who in tarnation had taken that way 
o’ gettin’ even with ’em. 

“ ‘I’ll git ’im,’ he yells at last, ‘if it takes a 
year. Jes’ sew some more buttons on that vest 
an’ hang it out to-morrow an’ maybe he’ll come 
back.’ 

“Well, he went to the ball without the waist- 
coat an’ next day his wife done as he told her. 


Little People of the Dust 139 

“I was a mite curious myself, so I kep’ an eye 
on that clothes-line most of the mornin’. By 
Jinks, jes’ about eleven o’clock, I see old Billie 
fly over an’ perch right down on the line. 

“He sat there as onconcerned as the flowers 
in May for a long time lookin’ as though he jes’ 
dropped down to rest a little. 

“By an’ by he stooped over an’ cocked one 
eye at them buttons an’ then pretended he hadn’t 
seen nothin’ at all. Purty soon he cocked an- 
other eye at them buttons an’ then he took one 
in his bill easy, jes’ as though he was tryin’ to 
see how hard it was without any intention of 
harmin’ it. He’s the durndest crow, Billie is. 
Well, sir, about that time he must’ve felt purty 
confident, for he jes’ reaches down an’ kinder 
workin’ his beak together, sawed them buttons 
right off one after the other, lettin’ ’em drop to 
the ground; then he set up straight on the line 
again an’ acted as onconcerned as though he 
hadn’t done nothing. 

“About that time I seen Mrs. O’Toole 
a-slippin’ alongside the house with the broom 
clutched in both hands. She jumped out an’ 
made one swipe that bowled Billie right off the 
line, but he got up quick as a wink and flapped 
off, cawin’ for all he’s worth. 

“When Mr. O’Toole came home that night an’ 
was told the good news, he was the maddest Irish- 


140 Little People of the Dust 

man I ever see. He jes’ turned green with 
rage. 

“ ‘I’ll fix him,’ he yelled, an’ he went out of 
the house, cornin’ back after dark with a shot- 
gun an’ a whole lot of shells. 

“By Jinks! I was scared. Billie an’ me had 
always been mighty good friends an’ I loved the 
old boy, though not as much as I do now. 

“Well, the next mornin’, Mr. O’Toole shoul- 
dered his gun an’ marched away, not exactly 
marched, for he crawled on his stomick so as 
to get near enough to shoot. 

“Billie was settin’ right in his usual place, 
sleepin’, I guess, for he was all hunched up in 
a feathery ball. 

“Mr. O’Toole got up on his knees easy when 
he got near ’nough. 

“ ‘Bang,’ went the gun, kickin’ him in the lip 
an’ makin’ it bleed. 

“Billie jes’ smoothed out his feathers an’ 
looked around. 

“‘Caw! Caw!’ he yelled back. That made 
Mr. O’Toole hoppin’ mad an’ he put in another 
shell, an’ aimed a long time. 

“Bang! ‘Caw! Caw! Caw!’ croaked Bil- 
lie, droppin’ off the limb and fiappin’ away to 
the other side o’ the dump. 

“ ‘The devil’s in the bird,’ said O’Toole, wipin’ 


Little People of the Dust 141 

his lip. ‘I shot straight at him, I’d swear by all 
that’s high and mighty.’ 

“The next day it was the same, an’ the day 
after. O’Toole a-shootin’ an’ Billie cawin’, un- 
til Billie got kinder used to it. Finally one Sun- 
day mornin’ O’Toole crep’ right close to the tree 
before Billie woke up. 

“ ‘Bang!’ went the gun, an’ I’ll be Mowed if 
Billie didn’t jes’ straighten out an’ say, ‘Haw!’ 
Leastwise, it sounded that way to me. 

“ ‘The dom bird is laughin’ at me,’ yelled 
O’Toole, throwin’ down the gun an’ stampin’ 
around. ‘He’s a devil, a thievin’ devil. Only a 
devil could live through that load o’ shot.’ 

“ ‘Maybe that’s so,’ said a man, cornin’ up jes’ 
then, ‘but it occurs to me you’re firin’ a gun in- 
side the city limits. Come along now an’ don’t 
make a fuss.’ 

“There never was a madder man than Mr. 
O’Toole. He was fairly foamin’ at the mouth. 

“ ‘He eat the buttons off my vest,’ he shouted. 

“ ‘You’re a fine man to stand by an’ let a bird 
eat the buttons off your vest. That’s a fine 
story for the judge.’ 

“ ‘But he did,’ yelled O’Toole. ‘My wife 
caught him doin’ it.’ 

“ ‘You must have been in a fine condition 
when you couldn’t kech ’im yourself.’ 


142 Little People of the Dust 

“ 'You don’t understan’. The vest was 
hangin’ on the line.’ 

" 'Did he pick the pockets in the vest, too?’ 
sneered the officer, an’ off he walked ’im as nice 
as could be.” 

Black Peter stopped and rubbed his hands and 
chuckled with suppressed merriment. 

"Is Billie a devil?” asked Millie fearfully. 

"He’s jes’ a knowin’ old crow, Millie.” 

"How’d he keep from gettin’ shot then?” asked 
Jimmie. 

Black Peter chuckled. 

"I took all the shot out o’ them shells. No, sir, 
I wasn’t goin’ to see Billie get shot if I could 
help an’ I’m mighty glad I did, ’cause if it hadn’t 
been for Billie, there’s somebody I know 
wouldn’t be sittin’ here to-night.” 

"One of us?” cried Millie excitedly. 

Black Peter nodded his head. "But I ain’t 
a-goin’ to tell which, so don’t never ask me.” 

The fire was now burning low and Black 
Peter rose, "Come on,” he said, quietly, "you 
got to go home now. It’s gettin’ late.” 

When they reached the two cottages under 
the great willow the front door of one opened 
and Jimmie’s mother came silently out upon the 
porch. 

"You go right along, the two of you,” said 
Black Peter in a voice that shook slightly. 


Little People of the Dust 143 

They obeyed at once and the man and the 
woman faced each other in silence. 

“Peter,” said the woman sadly, “John is 
drunk again.” 

“Did he hit you, Mary?” asked Black Peter 
hoarsely. 

“No,” she said sadly, “he didn’t do nothin’ 
like that this time, for he’s too far gone.” 

“Did he bring any money home with him?” 

The woman shook her head. “He spent it 
all.” 

Black Peter clenched his fists. 

“I guess I understand,” he said in a low voice. 
“You’re hungry again; you an’ Jimmie.” 

“No, Jimmie ain’t,” said the woman. 

“And you — promised — to tell me — faithful, 
Mary?” There was a slight tone of rebuke in 
the man’s voice. 

“I am tellin’ you, Peter. I thought he’d 
bring something sure to-night. He promised.” 

“It’s all right. I’ll go over to the shack an’ 
be back in a minute.” He was turning away. 

“Peter!” the woman cried softly. 

He stopped. 

“Can’t I thank you again for all you’ve 
done?” 

“There’s no thanks c6min’, Mary,” he said in 
a low voice. 

“I ain’t deservin’ of it,” she cried brokenly. 


144 Little People of the Dust 

“When I told you long ago, Mary,” he 
answered, “that all I had was your’n, I meant it, 
an’ you ain’t never goin’ to starve, you an’ Jim- 
mie while I’m alive.” 

“O God, you’re so good,” the woman’s voice 
quavered. 

“I ain’t good enough, that’s all’s the matter 
with me,” he answered. 

A door slammed in the house, both started. 

“Good-by, Peter,” she called softly. 

“Good-by, Mary,” he whispered. 

When she had gone in, his head dropped and 
he stood with hands clenched close to his side. 
He did not know that she crouched against the 
wall within, where she could see him, her eyes 
streaming with tears and her frail hands pressed 
against her breast. 


CHAPTER XIII 

/ 

M r. Hodges had not forgotten his prom- 
ise to Millie; in fact the simple matter 
of a few old dresses had absorbed more 
of his attention than he had ever deemed pos- 
sible. 

When he had tried surreptitiously to bring 
them down from the attic, where they had lain, 
carefully preserved by moth balls for more than 
fifteen years, he had, of course, run point blank 
into his daughter. His manner was so con- 
strained and guilty that her woman’s curiosity 
was aroused and though pretending to have 
noticed nothing at all, she watched with a smile 
as he carried the box out of the house and into 
the palm-room of their conservatory. Here a 
half hour later, quite accidentally, to be sure, she 
had surprised him in the very act of holding up a 
little pink slip by the shoulders and looking at 
it reflectively with head on one side. 

She was a woman of perhaps twenty-eight 
years of age, of girlish figure and walk. She 
would not, measured by accepted standards, 
have been pronounced positively beautiful, 
though the deep blue eyes and delicately molded 
145 


146 Little People of the Dust 

features and the glorious masses of her once 
golden hair, would have set her apart, a striking 
figure in any assembly of womankind. 

To the student of human nature, who looks 
deeper than outward appearances, she would 
have presented an interesting and in some ways 
a baffling study. In the clear depths of her blue 
eyes, as they looked straight into yours were 
candor and truth and a beautiful purity of ex- 
pression. But something else too, a wistfulness 
that gave one the impression that the eyes had 
grown weary watching for something that never 
came though the hope of its ultimate coming had 
never been wholly given up. There were other 
evidences of a secret sorrow overwhelming in its 
immensity. It showed in the prematurely gray 
hair; the slightly wrinkled brow, but more than 
all else in the quiet, low tones of her expressive 
voice. 

“Why, father,” she exclaimed in genuine sur- 
prise, “what are you doing with my old blue 
slip?” 

Mr. Hodges was startled and as he turned, 
lowered the dress and crushed it back into the 
box. In an instant his daughter’s arms were 
around his neck, her cheek pressed hard against 
his. 

“Tell me,” she whispered, “can’t you tell me?” 

“I just thought I’d look over some of the old 


Little People of the Dust 147 

things/’ he answered slowly, “kind of — kind of 
to bring back the old days when your mother 
was here and you were only a little girl.” 

“Oh, father,” she reprimanded, shaking her 
forefinger before his face. “There is some- 
thing else. I know you like a book, you dear 
old daddy. Come now,” she sat down on the 
edge of the box before him and took out the 
blue slip, “what do you want this for?” 

John Hodges smiled in spite of himself. 
“Well, if I can’t get out of it, I suppose I’ll 
have to tell. I am going to give it to a little 
girl who lives over near the big dump. Her 
name is Millie and she has only one old pink 
dress and in her own words, Tt’s tored/ ” 

“How old is she?” 

The wistful look grew strong in the blue eyes 
and the delicate lower lip trembled as it drew 
back between two even rows of teeth. 

“About eight or nine, I should say,” he 
answered, “a sweet, dear little thing. When I 
asked her what she’d do if I gave her a dress, 
she said she thought her heart would hurt so 
she’d cry.” 

“Is she poor, very poor, father?” 

“Very poor, I fear,” he answered, “dear, little 
thing! She and the boy named Jimmie have an 
oasis,” he smiled as he pronounced the word, 
“in the big dump. Think of that! I gave 


148 Little People of the Dust 

them seeds for some scarlet poppies and a couple 
of palms to make it look real. You should see 
how interested they both are in the beautiful 
poppies they have raised.” 

“The garden plot around the big rock, father? 
I wondered who had made that. Oh, it looked 
so refreshing in the midst of that terrible, terri- 
ble place.” 

A look of horror and suffering so intense 
came into the widened eyes, that John Hodges 
sprang to his feet. 

“Let’s not talk of it, Emily. Come, let’s go 
in where the orchids are and see how they’re 
coming on.” 

“Don’t worry, father, the feeling is past now. 
I don’t want to go in to the orchid room. I 
want to stay here and talk of little Millie. Did 
you say her name was Millie? When are you 
going to take the dresses over?” 

John Hodges hesitated. “Well, I — I don’t 
just know.” 

“I want to go with you when you do.” 

“No, no,” he cried, “you mustn’t.” 

“Mustn’t? Why?” 

“I can’t just tell you,” he said eagerly, “you 
must accept my judgment in the matter. My 
little girl,” he laid his arm around her neck and 
looked with hungry longing into her eyes. “My 


Little People of the Dust 149 

little girl!” There was a world of love in the 
simple words. 

“Just as you say, father,” she answered, 
“only I would very much like to know why.” 

He did not answer her but bent to his task of 
sorting out the clothes and she helped him in 
silence. 

Around them rose the scarred stems of the 
palms, each scar the mute evidence of a fallen 
leaf. The air was warm and humid and the in- 
tense stillness of growing things was all around 
them, broken only now and then by a heavy 
resonant “Spat!” as a great drop of moisture 
puckered on the sweating glass overhead and 
fell on the upturned palm of some wide-spread- 
ing leaf. 

Three dresses were finally chosen from a 
dozen others and after tying them in a neat roll, 
John Hodges rose. 

“I’m going now,” he said. “I’ll be back in 
an hour or so. If Father Gillin comes tell him 
to wait, be sure to tell him to wait, for I’ve a new 
variety of begonia to show him.” 

His daughter accompanied him to the door. 
“Will the new dragon-fly orchid be in full 
bloom by the middle of the month, father?” she 
asked. 

“I’m forcing it all I can,” he answered, “and 


150 Little People of the Dust 

I think it will, but if it doesn’t there are the 
cream-yellow; roses and the calla lilies. Good- 
by for a while.” 

She stood behind the glass of the closed door, 
a beautiful figure on whom sorrow had cast an 
appealing charm. There was a light in the blue 
eyes, a soft indefinite glow, a subdued reflection 
of the warmth within her heart; the light that 
comes only to the eyes of those favored among 
all women who have achieved in all purity and 
grace the highest attainment of human kind. 

She turned away and busied herself over a 
box of begonia seedlings and smiled tenderly as 
she tucked the warm sandy earth around the sil- 
ver roots with the same soft touch a mother uses 
on her new-born babe. 

When John Hodges arrived at the confines of 
the desert, he saw the tribes sitting under the 
big tent with the wonderful book across their 
knees. Both heads were bent very close to- 
gether and Millie’s delicate forefinger was travel- 
ing the lines which her blue eyes were reading. 
She stopped to cough now and then and but for 
the transparency of her skin and the unnatural 
brilliancy of the color on her delicate cheeks 
would have appeared in excellent health. 

A smile lit the man’s face as he stopped for a 
second to enjoy the sight of their absorption, 
then he moved on, calling a low-toned saluta- 


Little People of the Dust 151 

tion to Billie who sat lost in meditation on the 
gnarled old apple tree. 

As he neared the oasis both children looked 
up, then laid the book aside and ran out to greet 
him. Little Millie seized his arm and danced 
on her toes with childish delight. Jimmie 
looked up at him with his wizened face wrinkled 
in a grin of welcome. 

John Hodges felt some of the warmth of re- 
turning youth in the cordiality of his reception. 
He could only gaze down first at one and then 
at the other with beaming eyes. 

They led him straight to the tent and insisted 
on his sitting in the very middle of the marvel- 
ous Persian rug, which by now, under the dust- 
ing, whisking and cleansing to which Millie 
daily subjected it had recovered its former ele- 
gance and mystery to a pronounced degree. 

‘TVe brought you a little bundle,” said John 
Hodges, turning to Millie and laying the dresses 
in her arms. 

She deftly untied the strings and unrolled the 
garments one after the other with shining eyes. 

‘‘Oh, goody, goody,” she cried, as the blue one 
developed in all its beauty. “F or me ? All them 
for me?” 

“Every one,” answered John Hodges, “and 
when they are gone, I know of some more that 
you may have just as well as not.” 


152 Little People of the Dust 

With a pretty gesture the child threw her 
arms around his white head and kissed him 
loudly on the cheek. 

“You didn’t forget, did you?” 

It was many moments before the subject of 
blue slips and dresses in general could be dis- 
posed of and even after silence on that topic had 
ensued little Millie sat with her new treasures 
locked in her fragile arms, a look of deep 
pleasurable contemplation in her blue eyes. 

“Come now,” cried John Hodges, “show me 
the oasis and, by the way,” he fumbled in his 
pocket, “I’ve brought Jimmie a magnifying 
glass.” 

“What’s that?” said Jimmie. 

“It’s a wonderful glass to accompany the 
wonderful book. Of course now, Millie doesn’t 
need it because she can just shut her blue eyes and 
see anything she wishes but it’ll be a great help 
to little boys who must have their eyes wide open 
to see anything at all.” 

He produced the glass, a remarkably good 
one of large diameter and high power and held 
it up before two pairs of interested eyes. 

“With this magical glass you can look into a 
new world,” he continued. 

“Aw! you can’t neither,” said Jimmie with a 
wide grin of incredulity. 

“Yes, you can. You’ll believe me when I let 


Little People of the Dust 153 

you peek through. Oh, there’re lots and lots of 
things to see in this old world which our eyes 
won’t show us.” 

They went out of the tent and after looking 
the oasis over and commenting delightedly on 
its marvelous growth and beauty, they went 
straight out into the desert along the edge of the 
ravine that led down into the black pool. 

Suddenly Mr. Hodges stopped and bent over 
a purslane weed that lay sprawled out on the 
ashes and sand like a green octopus trying 
greedily to cover as much surface as possible. 
“Now, Mr. Jimmie,” he called triumphantly, 
“look there, sir. What do you see?” 

“Nothin’ but a weed,” answered Jimmie. 

“Nothing but a weed, eh? Well, there’s the 
most beautiful flower down there you ever 
saw.” 

“Not more beautiful than the lady brings who 
comes nights to the desert,” cried Millie. 

John Hodges straightened up suddenly, the 
purslane forgotten. 

“What lady?” 

“The lady what comes nights an’ brings the 
most wonderful roses just like cream — “an’ or- 
chards,” broke in Jimmie, “like what you got in 
the hot-house an’ Father Gillin likes most.” 

John Hodges passed his hand over his brow, 
“When — when does the lady come, Millie?” 


154 Little People of the Dust 

“Oh, every month. Black Peter says for ever 
so long. He sees her every time, I guess.” 

The look of sadness and resurrected memories 
of pain on the man’s face was so evident that 
even the children noticed it. 

“Ain’t you feeling well, Mr. Hodges?” 

“Oh, yes,” he answered, quickly recovering 
himself. 

“Now, let’s see, what was I saying? Oh, yes. 
There is the most beautiful flower down there.” 

Millie and Jimmie stared first at the sprawl- 
ing purslane and then at Mr. Hodges and both 
little faces took on a look of disbelief. 

“Ladies first,” said Mr. Hodges and he held 
the big glass directly over a minute yellow speck 
at the junction of a fat leaf and a shiny stem. 
He moved the glass slowly down to the right 
focal point, and Millie gave an amazed cry as the 
yellow speck grew into a wonderful blossom, so 
perfect in color and graceful lines, that it seemed 
the most beautiful thing in all the world. 

“Now let Jimmie see,” said Mr. Hodges, as 
with some difficulty he pushed the reluctant little 
head aside. 

Jimmie was lost in wonder for a full minute, 
then he looked up slowly. “Do you think,” he 
asked, “if I was to look at the Fountain of the 
Sun with that magic glass I’d see some of the 
camels what Millie sees?” 


Little People of the Dust 155 

“I’m afraid not,” laughed Mr. Hodges. “The 
magic glass can make things that are real 
seem bigger than they are but I’m afraid it 
couldn’t picture a camel on the Beaver Creek 
dump.” 

As the wonderful book had opened up before 
the children’s eyes a world of fancy and dream, 
so now the magic glass opened up a world of 
wonders that were real. They examined every 
thing they came across from a grain of sand to 
the tiny pink flowers of a diminutive weed and 
everywhere found secret beauty such as their 
eyes had never seen. 

The two hours Mr. Hodges had allowed him- 
self, sped quickly by, and returning, the three 
found themselves on the side of the ravine op- 
posite the black pool. There was something 
dark and forbidding in the sullen waters that 
lay so still and soundless under the sharply 
descending banks. 

“Them’s the holes,” whispered Millie, point- 
ing to a series of dark openings on the bank 
above the water, “that Black Peter told us never 
to go near.” 

“Why, what’s in them?” questioned Mr. 
Hodges. 

Jimmie looked up in surprise. “Don’t you 
know? Them’s where the old, gray rats live. 
Black Peter says they’re always hungry an’ 


156 Little People of the Dust 

might eat a little boy or girl if they had the 
chance.” 

Mr. Hodges shuddered. 

“Might eat a little boy or girl,” he echoed in 
so strange a voice that both children looked up. 

“Yep ! They run all about the desert at night 
an’ Black Peter says he’s seen Billie chasin’ ’em 
even in the daylight.” 

“Yes’n,” cried Millie excitedly, “when they 
get real starved, he says they run in packs like 
wolves an’ he wouldn’t want to be tackled by’m 
then.” 

“Come awaj^, come away,” cried Mr. Hodges 
with such a dreadful voice that the awed children 
almost ran. 

When they had reached the oasis Jimmie 
glanced fearfully hack towards the black pool 
then up at Mr. Hodges. 

“Yes’n,” he said in an eager whisper, “Black 
Peter says they’re a-starvin’ now.” 


CHAPrER XIV 


I T was the sixteenth of the month and very 
warm, though the night sky was so clear 
that the stars seemed wonderfully near, dis- 
pelling the blackness somewhat and inviting 
speculation and the enjoyment of dreams. 

Black Peter sat by the door of his shack, a 
stout oak stick across his knees and his blackened 
clay pipe between his teeth but he was not 
dreaming; on the contrary, for once, his calm 
and phlegmatic way of living out his life had 
given way to a keen alertness, and his every 
movement indicated nervous expectancy. 

At his feet the coals of his supper fire still 
smoldered dully, now and then rallying into 
a spurt of flame that lifted an edge of the dark- 
ness heavily, and made a queer uncouth shadow 
dance strange antics on the tin wall behind his 
back. 

And the desert sang ; not as it sang when the 
rain brought an answering purr from its thirsty 
throat, as it drummed with light fingers on every 
empty can, or tinkled on the sharp-pointed 
cinders, but sang with the voice of its myriad 
157 


158 Little People of the Dust 

living things, a chorus, strange, enchanting, and 
full of the suggestions of primeval days. 

The sharp staccato of the crickets, that every- 
where swarmed under cans and bricks and old 
pieces of wood stabbed the night air with shrill 
monotonous iteration. 

And down in the black pool and up the long 
ravine, the pleasant, long-drawn triU of innum- 
erable young frogs rose in happy, insistent 
chorus. 

From the neighborhood of the Fountain of 
the Sun, a low booming sound arose, and little 
Millie turned in her trundle bed and half asleep 
muttered, “There’s the grandfather frog sayin’ 
T wanta go home! I wanta go home!’” and 
she fell asleep wondering why, with such long, 
springy legs as his, he did not go home, if he 
wanted to. 

And Black Peter heard it, too, and smiled 
grimly and thought that the same words were 
rising up from a thousand hearts over there in 
the dark, huddled city. 

It is doubtful if the man heard more than this 
of the grand chorus being chanted around him, 
or if he did gave it heed in his mind, for his 
whole attention seemed fixed on the gnarled, old 
apple tree whose dim shape could just be made 
out through the intervening darkness. 

“I must tell her,” he muttered to himself, “if 


Little People of the Dust 159 

she comes to-night, that she mus’n’t come any 
more. If she does there’ll be a death out there 
some night, an’ like as not they’ll lay it on to 
me, bein’ as I am here all the time. No sir, 
she’s got to be told an’ that ends it.” 

The air around him seemed full of soft, 
silently gliding forms, and now and then from 
somewhere up above came the gently, shrill 
“cheeper!” of a wide-eared bat. 

An owl, fluffy and huge, attracted by the 
glowing coals at his feet, slid out of the black- 
ness — a vague, shadowy figure, its round eyes 
shining with reflected light, and, as gently, slid 
back into emptiness again. 

Black Peter moved the oak stick nervously on 
his knees and tilted back his can till it stood on 
its rear edge. 

“I don’t like the job.” He went on, “Who 
would? Whatever her business is here, it’s 
mighty sacred to her, but I can’t afford to go to 
jail jes’ yet, not jes’ yet, with old Jones still a- 
drinkin’ an’ Mary an’ Jimmie dependin’ on me 
for the bread that keeps ’em alive.” 

Suddenly he started and bent forward eagerly. 
“Ah,” he cried in a suppressed whisper. “You’re 
abroad, are you? Damn you!” The long, 
gaunt form of a rat slunk silently by, just be- 
yond the circle of ruddy light that sprayed out 
from the smoldered coals. 


i6o Little People of the Dust 

It stopped opposite to him, and raising its 
head sharply, sniffed audibly with a perceptible 
twitching of its nose. 

As it passed on out of sight. Black Peter re- 
lapsed into his former attitude. 

“It’s me or them before long.” He muttered. 
“I can see that; they gnawed every hour last 
night an’ it was only the tin kep’ ’em out, they 
can’t bite through tin. The city done a bad job 
for me when it cut out the wet stuff a-comin’ 
here.” 

He rose, stretched his legs and stamped idly 
around for a time. 

At last, as though no longer able to endure 
the strain of expectancy he clutched the oak 
stick in his right hand and shuffled slowly out 
towards the long ravine at whose lower end the 
black pool seemed drawn like a sheet of inked 
paper, smooth and tight and radiant with re- 
flected stars. 

Beyond, across the ravine was the apple tree 
and to the right of that the oasis and the Fountain 
of the Sun where boomed the ancient frog, as 
a distant relative might have boomed in the oasis 
of Siwah Shargieh. 

As the man peered through the encircling 
darkness, he fancied he saw something gray 
moving out across the desert in his direction. 
He dropped to one knee and waited breathlessly. 


Little People of the Dust i6i 

As the object approached it gathered form till 
the figure of a slightly built woman was dimly 
discernible. She carried something very large 
and apparently not heavy, in her arms, and 
stopped every step or two to listen and gaze 
fearfully around. 

She was evidently filled with an intense dread, 
for at last, as though unable to contain herself 
longer, she broke into a quick run that brought 
her to the very edge of the ravine across which 
Black Peter’s eyes watched her with nervous 
alertness. 

She had evidently reached the spot desired, 
for she threw herself upon her knees with a cry 
and bowed her head, till her gray hair touched 
the heap of ashes before her. 

Then as though quieted by prayer her faint 
sobbings grew less and less audible until they 
ceased altogether. As the moments sped by 
and she showed no inclination to rise. Black 
Peter grew restless and was about to gently call 
to her when a long, gaunt rat slipped up the side 
of the ravine and raised its head above the edge, 
sniffing the air suspiciously. It disappeared as 
silently as it had come, to reappear a moment 
later. As though summoned by some signal 
that it gave, a dozen others followed. 

They covered the distance between them and 
the woman in a swift gliding run and to Black 


i 62 Little People of the Dust 

Peter’s horror swarmed over the prostrate form, 
which made no motion in defense. With a 
bound the man came to his feet and uttering a 
loud cry, plunged headlong down the yielding 
side of the ravine, leaped a puddle of dark water 
and scrambled up the farther bank. As he did 
so, he became possessed by a frenzy of excite- 
ment, for all about him, he could see the silently 
hurrying forms of rats so numerous that his 
hands came in contact with their shrinking 
bodies. 

He reached the top at last. The ground be- 
fore him seemed to swarm under his feet with 
moving forms. 

In a burst of speed, strangely incongruous to 
his squat figure, he covered the distance between 
himself and the woman and laying about him 
savagely with his oak stick drove back the fam- 
ished animals. 

He bent over and lifted the apparently life- 
less form in his arms and began to run in the 
direction of the old apple tree. He had hoped 
that the rodents would not follow, but with wild 
squeals of rage and disappointment they swarmed 
after him, leaping up out of the darkness and 
snapping their teeth together. The distance to 
the desert’s edge was far and the burden he 
carried grew rapidly heavier as he ran. His 


Little People of the Dust 163 

strength began to fail and a sudden panic of 
fear took possession of him ; fear not for himself, 
for he knew he was safe enough, but for the 
woman circled by his arms. 

He was about to cry out for assistance, though 
he realized a cry in that vacant place was worse 
than useless, when directly before him, running 
heavily across the desert’s edge, he saw the hat- 
less white-haired figure of a man. 

“Daughter! Daughter!” cried a voice en- 
feebled by long running. The two men rapidly 
approached each other. 

“Quick!” shouted Black Peter, as he reached 
the newcomer. “Take her! take her, man! 
Take her and run. I’ll fight ’em back.” 

The old man gazed about him as though stupe- 
fied then suddenly realizing the situation, held 
out his arms and took the burden. As he did 
so. Black Peter’s face came very close to his. 
For an instant the eyes of the two met in recog- 
nition. 

“John Hodges,” cried Black Peter. “My 
God! John Hodges, is that you?” 

With the advent of the third person the rats 
had fallen back but as Hodges moved slowly 
away with his heavy load, the squealing began 
again and they started to close in once more. 
Black Peter sprang before them. His stick 


164 Little People of the Dust 

was gone but he raised his naked hands and 
gesticulated wildly, giving vent at the same time 
to sharp hoarse shouts. 

Under cover of this diversion, John Hodges 
moved slowly away in the darkness and was for- 
gotten. Not so Black Peter. The rush came 
almost immediately. From all sides the gaunt 
rodents, some of them of huge size, sprang upon 
him. They circled him in a quick gliding run 
and then launched themselves straight at his 
throat. He beat them down as best he could 
with unaided hands; tore them from his coat 
where they clung with the tenacity of death, to 
hurl them swiftly to the earth ; trampled on them 
and sent them flying with his heavy boots, and 
still they closed in, their courage undaunted and 
their ferocity increased. At last seeing that 
such resistance must cost him his life he turned 
and fled. He must have looked strangely like 
the Pied Piper of Hamelin as he scuttled up to 
the gray rock, rounded the oasis and sped away 
towards the shack with a wedge-shaped stream 
of rats in swift pursuit. Ungainly as he was. 
Black Peter could run when put to it and he 
gained his door considerably ahead of the fore- 
most pursuer. He closed it quickly behind him 
and panting heavily, sat down on an empty 
packing case before lighting his tallow candle. 

“John Hodges! Good Lord,” he mumbled. 


Little People of the Dust 165 

‘‘Emily Hodges, and the very spot where — 
Good Lord! It’s a queer world.” He sighed 
bitterly. “No wonder she brings flowers. It’s 
no wonder at all.” 

He got up ; took the candle from its niche and 
lit it. A pale yellow light flooded the strangely 
disordered room. It cast brown shadows be- 
hind the barrels and packing cases and glinted 
from the shiny surfaces of the heaps of new tin 
or built up an inverted image of itself on the 
rounded shoulders of empty bottles. 

As he moved over to the ill-kept bed in the far 
corner, every shadow behind everything in the 
room moved carefully behind its particular 
obstruction as though anxious for conceal- 
ment. 

With the break of dawn Black Peter and 
Billie were abroad. Billie to the scene of the 
battle of the night before where he found little 
but gnawed bones to tell of the havoc there 
wrought and Black Peter to the Fountain of the 
Sun for his morning drink. 

As the latter stood looking down upon its 
placid surface and far on into the depths of the 
cloudless sky it mirrored, J ohn Hodges ap- 
peared under the old apple tree and walked 
quickly towards him. 

“Peter!” he called as he approached. The 
man started from his abstraction. 


i66 Little People of the Dust 

“John Hodges!’’ He took the outstretched 
hand of the florist and gripped it warmly. 

“I can’t thank you enough for what you did 
last night,” said John Hodges. 

“She mustn’t come any more,” answered Black 
Peter. “The rats are famished as you see.” 

“Come again!” said Hodges. “I never knew 
until yesterday — when little Millie told me — that 
she had ever been here before. Oh, my friend!” 
the man’s lips trembled, “I know what you 
think ; that she cast away a child in this dreadful 
place. Before God, it is not so. She did no 
such thing; though one was cast away.” 

“I did think so,” answered Black Peter. 
“Forgive me.” 

“Who wouldn’t?” said John Hodges. “Ah, 
God, the world is full of misunderstandings. I 
wonder if it would be too much to ask — ” he 
hesitated. 

“I know,” said Black Peter. “I’ll promise. 
No one from this day forth shall ever hear the 
story from me. Rest sure of that, only keep 
her away. Don’t let her come, no matter how 
she feels about it.” 

“How long has she come?” asked Mr. Hodges. 

“Four years now. I’m here in the dump ten 
years. Yes, it’s four since she first came.” 

John Hodges nodded his head. “That’s 


Little People of the Dust 167 

right; it’s four years ago, since it happened. 
Then you’ll promise?” 

‘T will. No one shall hear anything from 
me. 

''God bless you, Peter,” said John Hodges. 
“There’s just one you may talk to — Father 
Gillin — if your spirit urges you to talk.” 

Black Peter smiled and the two men were 
about to part when little Millie shouted gayly to 
them from the front porch of her home. They 
both waved their hands and smiled. She was 
calling something. They strained their ears to 
hear, then it came and the smile died on both 
faces. 

“Did she come with the beautiful flowers?” 

Black Peter looked at John Hodges. 

“Tell her she did; she expects them, and here- 
after I’ll bring a fine bunch the middle of each 
month myself.” 

When they had gone, the old frog drifted 
leisurely to the surface of the Fountain of the 
Sun and expanded his yellow-green throat in 
sheer content. The toad licked a bee from a 
sweet alyssum blossom with incredible speed, 
winked his pouchy eyes and stretched his hind 
legs luxuriantly on the warm mold. 


CHAPTER XV 



iHEY had made the rounds of the green- 


house and the missionary had plucked 


his usual orchid and carried it lightly 
in his hand, raising it now and then for a glance 
at its wonderful color and form. 

“ You’ve something on your mind, John Hod- 
ges,” said the priest, “you’re not yourself. 
What is it, may I ask?” 

“I thank God I am not someone else,” said 
the other, “for I want no other living person to 
hold the memory as I do of what I went through 
last night. Come into the house. Father Gillin, 
where we can talk at our ease.” 

The priest followed slowly, head down and in 
deep thought. He had known the man before 
him for five or six years, ever since he had come 
to his present pastorate and yearly his respect 
for his rugged virtues had deepened to a still 
and enduring affection. 

“Sit down,” said Mr. Hodges, “in that big 
easy chair and have a cigar, for though I don’t 
belong to your faith. Father Gillin, I have faith 
in you and the time has come when I must speak 
of a thing long hidden in my heart.” 


i68 


Little People of the Dust 169 

The missionary collapsed with a sigh of relief, 
for his legs were very tired; he rested a second 
before accepting the proffered cigar. 

“What ever you say, John Hodges,” he finally 
remarked, ‘T shall place with the innumerable 
other secrets that my ear has whispered to my 
mind.” 

“Ah, Father Gillin,” answered the other, 
“man was never meant to take counsel with him- 
self and yet there are things that it sears the 
heart to lay bare to another.” 

“I know, I know,” said the priest and his eyes 
had that look in them that comes from gazing 
out long on the sorrows of life. 

“If it had not been for last night,” went on 
Mr. Hodges, “I nfight not have been driven to 
confide in you to-day, but I feel since then that 
I must take counsel somewhere and where better 
than in your generous heart where I know my 
secret is safe for all time.” 

The priest smoked in silence. 

“You have heard Black Peter tell of the 
woman who came nights to the great dump with 
the wonderful flowers.” 

The priest started. 

“Well, that woman is my daughter, my gentle 
Emily.” 

“God bless us!” cried the priest. 


170 Little People of the Dust 

‘‘And I never knew she made those monthly 
trips till I followed her last night/’ 

With as much brevity as possible he sketched 
the happenings on the desert. When he had 
finished he looked up. The priest’s cigar had 
gone out and he sat gripping the arms of his 
chair with a look of horror on his face. 

“Ah, well,” continued Mr. Hodges, “that’s 
only the end of the tale. The beginning lies 
back in the years that are gone. Father Gillin, 
up to the day when you brought little Millie to 
my green-house, I fancied that the one secret 
sorrow of my life was dead and buried in the 
years that had brought it forth, but when I looked 
down and saw the blue eyes of your little friend 
smiling up at me, and beheld her golden hair 
hanging loose about her shoulders, I knew it had 
only been sleeping and had awakened with all its 
old bitterness and heart-burning.” He rose and 
going over to the mantel took down a framed 
picture and handed it to the priest. “Did you 
ever see anyone who looked like that?” 

The missionary studied the portrait a second. 

“Little Millie,” he answered finally. “It 
looks like her, only the mouth is larger.” 

“That is the picture of my little Emily when 
she was twelve years old.” 

Mr. Hodges studied the priest’s face but its 
lines only softened a little as he raised his mild 


Little People of the Dust 171 

eyes. “Go on, John Hodges, what happened 
then?” 

“Nothing happened then. Father Gillin, nor 
for a long while afterwards. She developed 
under my care and that of my good wife like 
one of those precious orchids out there in the 
palm house, and she was as rare and as beautiful 
in my eyes. She was an only child, Father, and 
you can imagine how our love and hopes were 
centered in her future happiness,” he paused and 
lighting his old meerschaum puffed reflectively 
for a few moments. “Well,” he began suddenly, 
“the day came when she was no longer the child 
she had been and we awoke from our memory 
and dreams of her to And her bursting forth into 
all the young glory of her womanhood. We 
were glad of course, though our gladness was 
tinged with sad recollections of days that were 
gone; but we welcomed the young mate she had 
chosen with all the warmth that should be be- 
stowed upon him who was so intimately to share 
our girl’s life. She was only twenty then, but 
insistent and though we argued for delay they 
would have none of it, so they were married and 
the old tree that we looked at this afternoon 
furnished the orange blossons for the occasion.” 

Father Gillin heaved a sigh of relief. 
“Surely, John Hodges,” he said almost lightly, 
“your story can not be as sad as I thought it.” 


172 Little People of the Dust 

“I knew what you were thinking, Father 
Gillin. No, thank God, I have no shadow like 
that over my days. The ceremony was per- 
formed right here in this room hy an old clergy- 
man who has since passed on to his reward. But 
to go on, the young man was a traveling sales- 
man for a hig tobacco concern and was away 
from home on the road very often for three 
months at a time. On this account, Emily lived 
with us and was as constantly under our eyes 
and care as she had ever been before; more so, 
perhaps, for both young people were looking 
forward with hope to the day when a business 
arrangement would enable them to start up 
housekeeping for themselves. He was gone on 
one occasion for three months and during that 
time we learned of an event that was to take 
place and the news filled our hearts with joy. 
For some reason the news was not communi- 
cated to him until shortly before he was ex- 
pected home. From the moment he stepped in- 
side the door we all were conscious that some- 
thing was very wrong. That night he took 
Emily out for a walk and when the poor girl re- 
turned she was in tears and hysterical. He did 
not come home with her.” 

Mr. Hodges passed his hand over his brow 
wearily. 

“He didn’t come the next day, or the next and 


Little People of the Dust 173 

neither one of us could get a word out of our 
daughter in explanation of his queer conduct. 
Next we learned he was on the road again and 
would be gone possibly six months into the 
farthest wilds of Alaska. We did not tell 
Emily, for his absence and the secret sorrow 
that preyed upon her heart had so enfeebled 
her that we feared the shock might be fatal. 
Well, at last the time approached towards which 
in the early months we had looked forward with 
joyous hope. 

“The day set arrived, but the expected heir did 
not come owing to the extreme weakness of our 
daughter ; a week passed and then ten days ; then 
two weeks. Unknown to us my son-in-law had 
returned and had remained in seclusion at a close 
friend’s house. One evening our daughter called 
us to her bedside and said she feared she was 
about to die and thereupon told us the reason for 
the strange absence of her husband. I need not 
go into the details of that reason here, ‘for it 
does not affect the result that followed, and after 
all, was only the reason which a disordered in- 
tellect had conjured up out of sheer imagination. 
If the delay had not come all might have been 
well, though I don’t know, for jealousy such as 
my son-in-law manifested was akin to insanity 
and would have broken out later in some other 
form.” 


174 Little People of the Dust 

Mr. Hodges rose from his chair. “The delay 
did come though, as I have explained. It was 
proof to him, though it meant nothing to us or 
anybody else. When he heard the child had 
been born, he came suddenly and asked to see 
it. The nurse says he gazed at it long and, 
thoughtfully; then his fingers twitched and he 
leaned over and took it out of the crib. Before 
anyone could interfere he had gone, carrying it 
away. It was late at night. I was called. I 
summoned the police and we searched the whole 
town to no avail. He had laid his plans well 
and had escaped as though swallowed up by the 
earth.” 

Mr. Hodges sat down again, this time with his 
hand over his heart. 

“Poor boy! Poor boy!” murmured the priest, 
“and what then?” 

“We heard nothing for five years then I re- 
ceived a telegram asking me to go to Los 
Angeles. It came from the authorities of an 
insane asylum near there and stated that my son- 
in-law was dying of tuberculosis and prayed 
night and day to see me before he passed on. I 
went. Oh, it was a long weary journey, with a 
heart full of blackness and rage and my fingers 
twitching to take his life. I found him. He 
was lucid at intervals. A dreadful sight. 
Heavenly Father! A dreadful sight. I waited 


Little People of the Dust 175 

three days for a lucid interval and then the sum- 
mons came. ‘Sit down/ he said after a fit of 
coughing. His eyes were big and sunken and 
his cheeks drawn tight over the bones, and 
shiny.” 

Mr. Hodges buried his face in his hands. 

“I could say nothing in the sight of such 
misery as his. All the wrath died in my heart, 
all the curses on my hps; I could only see him 
as he once was and contrast that with his present 
condition. The change had been so piteous I 
wept. 

“‘Is she still alive?’ he asked. I told him 
she was. His face seemed contorted with 
pain. 

“ ‘Tell me,’ he then went on, ‘as you value your 
soul was I right or wrong?’ I could have 
strangled him then had it not been that a 
stronger hand than mine had stricken him. I 
told him, controlling myself as best I could, the 
utter folly of his charge, and he groaned and 
shrank from my words as though they scourged 
him with leaded thongs. 

“ ‘You can make amends in part,’ I told him 
at last, ‘by telhng us where the child is, that we 
may give her back to her mother as her one re- 
maining consolation.’ ” 

As I mentioned the subject his eyes took on 
such a glitter that strong as I then was, I shrank 


176 Little People of the Dust 

back. Then he laughed. Oh ! Heavenly Father 1 
what a laugh. 

“‘The baby?’ he cried. ‘The baby? You’ll 
find her bones on the Beaver Creek dump!’ ” 

Father Gillin groaned and the eyes that had 
looked out on much sorrow filled with tears. 
“John Hodges,” he cried, rising and placing his 
hand on the other’s bowed head, “the man was in- 
sane, when he said it. Not even a devil out of 
hell could be guilty of such a fiendish thing.” 

John Hodges shook his head. “It has been 
done many times,” he said brokenly; “many, 
many times.” 

“Gk)d help us, it has,” said the other. “I for- 
got that it has.” 

The priest sat down again. “How long ago 
did all this happen?” he asked. 

“The child’s birth?” 

“Yes.” 

“Nine years ago, the sixteenth of last May.” 

As Mr. Hodges answered, the door behind him 
softly opened and a woman of youthful figure, 
but with hair heavily sprinkled with white, en- 
tered quietly. Both men looked up. 

“Sitting like two old cronies, dreaming 
dreams,” she said, with a laugh. 

“Dreaming dreams,” said John Hodges, ris- 
ing. “Come, Emily, sit down here near both of 


Little People of the Dust 177 

“Won’t I be intruding?” 

Father Gillin rose. “I shall feel,” he said, 
with quiet dignity, ‘'that into our council has 
come one whom God must surely love,” 


CHAPTER XVI 


T he fatal day, which Black Peter had 
with prophetic vision long before fore- 
told, arrived at last. 

Jimmie had gone off to school with many a 
backward glance at the enticing greenness of the 
oasis and the flapping sides of the spacious 
tent. 

Little Millie was on hands and knees carefully 
scanning the long poppy bed which a sacrilegious 
weed was never allowed to desecrate by his un- 
welcome presence. All around her golden head 
the scarlet and pink and yellow blossoms nodded 
and swayed, their edges most delicately fringed 
and their colors so rich and deep that they seemed 
to glow with life when the sun’s rays fell upon 
them. 

A low, booming sound came to the shell-like 
ears of the little tribes. She lifted her bright 
head with wide, wondering eyes, then scrambled 
to her feet and gazed long and inquiringly across 
the acres of the desert to where a caravan 
of heavy red wagons trundled slowly along. The 
awful significance of this invading host did not 
dawn upon her mind till the first wagon drew up 
178 


Little People of the Dust 179 

alongside the mighty Pyramid of Cheops. When 
the driver jumped down from his seat and pre- 
pared to let down the end-gate, the whole sick- 
ening truth broke over her. She wrung her 
hands in despair and danced impatiently on both 
her small feet; then fled with breathless haste to 
where Black Peter toiled, overhauling the fresh 
piles of rubbish. 

‘‘They’re — they’re goin’ to tear down the Pyr- 
amid of Cheops,” she wailed in a high treble. 

Black Peter straightened his back and looked 
flrst at the eager little face and then at the long 
caravan of red city wagons. 

“Never mind,” he said finally, smothering a 
grin with his dusty hand, “I’ve heard say that 
it’s bad luck to monkey with them pyramids. 
Perhaps a stone will drop on one o’ their 
toes.” 

“But they’ll carry the pyramid away.” 

“We can’t help it if they do. Now, if there 
was jes’ one of them or even six or seven, you 
an’ me could lick ’em perhaps, but there’s too 
many of ’em even for me.” 

The hope died in her blue eyes and the lips 
trembled, but the little heart back of it all was 
brave. “I don’t know what Jimmie’ll say,” she 
mourned; “he’ll feel awful bad.” 

“If Jimmie was here,” said Black Peter, with 
great decision, “we could lick the whole seven- 


i8o Little People of the Dust 

teen of ’em an’ save the pyramid from destruc- 
tion.” 

The blue eyes looked up at him in astonish- 
ment, then with brightening hope. In her eyes 
Black Peter had always been a person of consid- 
erable power and, though her small mind won- 
dered how Jimmie’s presence could so materially 
aid in saving the Pyramid of Cheops, she did not 
stop to question the truth of the statement that 
had been handed down. One idea and one alone 
took possession of her soul, and with a glance at 
the long caravan which was even then encircling 
the beloved pyramid, she flew with all the 
strength of her little body to put it into execu- 
tion. 

Jimmie must be brought to the rescue, and 
then he and she and Black Peter in some myste- 
rious way that the dump-man would point out, 
would ward otF the impending danger. Luckily 
the school was not far distant or the frail little 
legs would have refused to do their part, but 
near as it was it was a sadly winded little girl 
who clambered up the stone steps, pulled frantic- 
ally at the huge door, and squeezed herself 
through the narrow slit she succeeded in making. 
She well knew where Jimmie’s room was, for she 
had often peeped in at him when, in company 
with the other members of her own class, she had 


Little People of the Dust i8i 

filed past on the way to the yard in the days be- 
fore her weakness compelled her to remain at 
home. She was demure enough then and as quiet 
as the proverbial mouse, but to-day her soul was 
in the grip of a great anxiety. Even as she ran 
she saw the workmen tearing down, stone by 
stone, the proud pyramid of the desert. The 
thought quite overcame her. 

“Jimmie!” she screamed. “Jimmie!” and the 
staid old corridor, unaccustomed to such sounds 
of discord, chattered back with a hundred echoes. 
“Jimmie!” she cried again, louder than before, 
and Jimmie heard where he sat in the last row 
and stiffened up very straight and looked right 
at the teacher, who was too startled to speak. 

Then the room door slowly opened and Mil- 
lie’s golden head with excited eyes and tousled 
hair entered, followed by her blue-frocked little 
person. 

“Jimmie,” she called, to the amazement of 
the twenty-nine other denizens of the room. 
“They’re tearin’ down the Pyramid of Cheops.” 

The door had softly closed after her. Her 
mission accomplished, the dreadful nature of the 
situation came over her. She shrank from the 
cold, gray eyes of Miss Evans who had not yet 
recovered her speech, which proves conclusively 
how very great her astonishment must have been ; 


i 82 Little People of the Dust 

then, with a terror-stricken gulp, she turned and 
bolted, pushing open the door with frantic 
strength. 

“Jimmie,” said Miss Evans, “come here. 
Was that Millie Atkins?” 

“Yes’m.” 

“What — what did she say they were doing?” 

Jimmie’s eyes widened as the horror of the 
communication swept over him. “She said they 
was tearin’ down the Pyramid of Cheops.” 

For many days Miss Evans had suspected her- 
self of failing mentally. She sat back helplessly 
and looked around on the other twenty-nine as 
though to assure herself of their reality. 

“Now say that again, Jimmie,” she com- 
manded, without looking at his face. 

“She said they’re tearin’ down the Pyramid of 
Cheops.” Jimmie’s lip trembled and one pudgy 
fist made a vain endeavor to pry an eye out. At 
his subdued sniffle Miss Evans looked around. 

“I’ve heard they were digging the sand away 
from around it,” she said quietly, “but I never 
supposed they’d try to move it, and anyway,” she 
went on absently, “I see no reason for such a fuss 
about the matter.” 

“You don’t know how long it took to build it,” 
wailed Jimmie. 

“Of all things!” Miss Evans’ eyes were open 
in astonishment. “Jimmie Jones, what are 


Little People of the Dust 183 

you talking about? Go back to your seat at 
once!” 

Long after he had taken his place among the 
other twenty-nine. Miss Evans kept her gray 
eyes upon him with a meditative stare. 

A full half hour later she called Jimmie again 
to the desk and, with more appreciation of the 
real situation, obtained an exact knowledge of 
the truth from his halting lips. At the conclu- 
sion of his narrative she sat back with a deep sigh 
and congratulated herself upon his vindication 
of her senses. 

There was no loitering on the way that night 
for Jimmie; his legs flew like the spokes in a 
moving wheel all the way home. From afar he 
sighted the cataclysm, and the impending doom 
of one of the desert’s sacred institutions lent 
swiftness to his limbs. 

Millie was there, near the scene of destruction. 
She had been there every minute since her panic- 
stricken flight from the schoolroom. Every 
stone that had been dislodged and loaded on the 
red wagons had meant a pang for her tender 
heart. She had cried all her tears away and was 
very blue-eyed and pensive when Jimmie arrived. 

He at once took in the hopelessness of the situ- 
ation and sat down beside her without a word, 
only his hand reached out and felt for hers and, 
when it was found, held it very warm and close. 


184 Little People of the Dust 

As the minutes sped the pyramid grew less 
and less; the light began to fade and the face 
of the desert to grow gray; the air was full of 
pigeons bound for their cots, but the faithful 
tribes watched on till the last red wagon had 
been filled and had trundled away with the last 
stone of the desert’s pride. 

Little Millie rose, and, with the blessed forget- 
fulness of woe that only childhood knows, smiled 
down at Jimmie and bantered him to beat her in 
a race to the oasis. 

He was older and more experienced in woe, 
and care did not fall so easily from his soul. He 
sat on in moody silence. Millie walked slowly 
away, looking back coquettishly from time to 
time, but, at last abandoning him entirely, made 
straight for the little oasis and later hop-skipped 
away to her home, apparently forgetful of the 
ordeal through which she had just passed. 

As Jimmie sat there looking at the gray dust 
where the pyramid had stood, he became gradu- 
ally conscious of a gleam of many-colored lights 
that seemed to burn like a live coal among the 
surrounding ashes. He focused his eyes upon 
it. “It must be a pretty piece of glass,” he said, 
aloud, and was just about to rise and examine 
it when he saw Billie slide out of the old apple 
tree. “I wonder if he seen it, too,” he said, with 
a grin. 


Little People of the Dust 185 

Billie evidently had, for he circled the spot 
once, and then, with a wide spreading of his 
wings and a little bounce on his stocky legs, lit 
just beyond it. 

Jimmie settled back. The prospect of seeing 
Billie engaged in any of his activities pleased 
him immensely. His eye wandered to the thing 
that gleamed with such brilliancy and beauty, and 
then back to the old crow, who with meditative 
eye and dignified steps was slowly approaching 
the object of his desires. 

“Golly!” said the boy softly, “I bet he cops 
that, all right. I wonder what it is?” 

The crow ruffled his feathers with a quick 
shake of his body and bent over the glistening 
thing before him ; he surveyed it first on one side 
and then on the other and gave it- a preliminary 
peck. He seemed satisfied at last, that it pos- 
sessed all the qualifications necessary to entitle 
it to become a specimen in his numerous collec- 
tion, for he seized it firmly in his bill and backed 
slowly away, dragging something long and chain- 
like to which it was attached, out of the yielding 
gray dust. 

With a start and low cry Jimmie bent forward 
till he was on hands and knees. 

It was the necklace, there could be no doubt 
of it, with its huge diamond and gold-strung 
pearls. 


i86 Little People of the Dust 

When the truth had dawned upon the boy’s 
mind and he had recovered somewhat from his 
astonishment, he leaped to his feet and rushed 
towards the crow, but Billie saw him coming, 
out of the corner of his eye, and his great wings 
beat the air with a subdued, rhythmic flap. 

‘‘I seen it first! I seen it first!” wailed Jim- 
mie, as he ran along beneath him, but Billie 
never even deigned to caw back an answer and 
disappeared according to custom somewhere be- 
hind the long willows that fringed the lower edge 
of the black pool. 


CHAPTER XVII 


W HEN Billie dropped out of sight, like a 
dark meteor behind the dense willows 
that sprayed up beyond the black pool, 
the heart in little Jimmie’s breast sank with him. 

“I won’t never get it now,” he wailed; “he’ll 
hide it so I can’t never find it again.” Then, as 
though illumined by a white light, his mind 
suddenly recalled the words of Black Peter, 
“He’ll jes’ mosey back to that old apple tree 
after a while an’ hide it away in his safe.” “I 
wonder if he will,” whispered the boy to himself. 
“I’ll watch.” He ran away as swiftly as his 
little legs would carry him to the great tent. 
Once inside he threw himself upon the ground 
and, lifting the side towards the old apple tree a 
little, propped it up with two sticks and re- 
mained, head in hands, eagerly watching devel- 
opments. 

Long minutes passed; the doves wheeled over 
the oasis once or twice and a rat sneaked in and 
out between the old cans down by the long ra- 
vine. The Fountain of the Sun was below him 
to the left and, as he looked across it, he saw the 
old grandfather frog come slowly to the surface, 
187 


l88 Little People of the Dust 

his long legs trailing indolently out behind and 
his yellow-green throat swelling and falling with 
rhythmic undulations. It was a great tempta- 
tion for the boy to watch this intruder into his 
range of vision instead of the inert willows be- 
hind which Billie was intent on some dark and 
mysterious business; but he resolutely kept his 
eyes where they belonged and the frog floated on 
serenely, utterly oblivious of his presence. 

The boy was beginning to tire of the long 
watch when he noticed something dark moving 
beyond the clump of barberry bushes that fringed 
the desert’s edge. He was instantly alert. It 
was Billie, no doubt about it, for a second later 
the old crow stepped warily into the open and 
walked slowly with a sedate lifting of one foot 
after the other in the direction of his tree. 

But where was the necklace? Not a sign of it 
was to be seen and Jimmie felt a strange sadness 
and weight in the region of his heart. “He’s 
hid it,” he cried, tears starting in his eyes, when 
suddenly he saw the old crow dart back into the 
barberry bushes and reappear instantly drag- 
ging something long and dangling after him. 
The boy’s heart experienced a wonderful re- 
action. 

“Oh,” he cried softly, “he has got it!” 

Billie had gained the shelter of another bush,, 
from which a second later he sedately marched 


Little People of the Dust 189 

forth as though intent on nothing more serious 
than a daily walk. This time he looked long 
and earnestly over the desert and at last, as 
though satisfied he was unobserved, fluttered back 
to the bush, picked up the necklace, and flew 
straight to his perch on the old apple tree. 

Even here his native caution did not desert 
him, for he held the string of pearls close to the 
trunk of the tree in order that they might escape 
detection. The smoothly worn opening into the 
owl’s hole was directly beneath him, and whether 
it was that Jimmie wavered in his intense vigi- 
lance or the bird performed some sleight-of-hand 
trick will never be known, but a second later the 
perch was empty and as Billie flapped close over- 
head, the stout end feathers on his wings show- 
ing distinctly, he bore no necklace in his beak. 
The boy changed his position and watched Bil- 
lie in his flight till he settled with a little bounce 
on the other side of the desert ; then he crept qui- 
etly from the tent and, keeping his back bent so 
as to escape detection, ran along as fast as he 
could in the direction of the apple tree. He 
stumbled in his haste and fell sprawling, hut 
picked himself up and looked cautiously back. 

“Black Peter says he’ll peck my eyes out if 
he keches me,” he whimpered, “but I guess he’d 
want them beads, too.” 

His little heart was fluttering painfully with 


igo Little People of the Dust 

excitement. He ran on and gained the foot of 
the tree and, hugging it with both hands and 
clasping it with his knees, frantically climbed 
up and straddled the first limb. From his po- 
sition he could distinctly see Billie bobbing up 
and down as he pecked energetically at some ob- 
ject that attracted his attention. Satisfied that, 
so far, he was unobserved, Jimmie drew himself 
up and carefully climbed onto a second limb and 
was almost within arm’s reach of the old owl’s 
nest. A fever of excitement possessed him. 
His eyes sparkled and his legs and arms trem- 
bled so that he could scarcely maintain his posi- 
tion. He felt strangely weak. 

can’t never get it,” he wailed softly. 
‘‘He’ll see me an’ then — ” With an energy of 
despair he drew himself up to a standing posi- 
tion, clutching the body of the tree with both 
hands; then he raised himself till his chin was 
even with the owl’s hole. As he did so, he 
glanced over his shoulder. Billie had turned 
and was facing him, and even as he looked he 
squatted and launched himself into the air. 

The terror-stricken boy hugged close to the 
trunk of the tree, not daring to move. Appar- 
ently Billie was coming straight to his perch, but 
as he swung up over the ravine the rat that had 
been moving in and out among the old cans at- 


Little People of the Dust 191 

tracted his attention. He turned almost on his 
back in reversing his flight, then dropped sud- 
denly and silently with wide-spread wings. The 
rat was caught unawares and, before he could 
run or turn to defend himself, the crow’s body 
had bowled him over and the bird’s heavy beak 
had delivered a stunning blow. 

So fascinated was Jimmie in the drama of life 
and death being enacted below him that he mo- 
mentarily forgot his purpose, and all might have 
been well had Billie followed his usual custom 
of eating his quarry upon the spot, but to-day, 
perhaps on account of the beady eyes and snif- 
fing snouts of other rats that peered forth hun- 
grily from their burrows in the bank above the 
black pool, he decided to make his meal else- 
where, and with that end in view seized the fallen 
rat in his powerful beak and lifted himself heav- 
ily into the air. 

With a sudden recollection of where he was, 
Jimmie turned his head and thrust his arm into 
the owl’s nest. A sickening sense of despair and 
defeat swept over him as he found he could 
scarcely touch the bottom from the place he 
then held. As though suddenly forgetful of his 
precarious position, he grasped a limb higher up 
and swung his leg up over another. With the 
advantage thus gained he was just able to reach 


192 Little People of the Dust 

the bottom and a thrill passed through him as he 
felt his fingers close on the beads of the long 
necklace. 

But Billie had seen, and a wild ‘‘Caw” that 
caused him to drop his prey, came to the boy’s 
ears. In a second he had changed his course 
and was bearing down upon the apple tree and 
its frightened occupant. Instinctively the boy 
felt his near approach and, clutching the neck- 
lace of pearls, withdrew his hand and threw both 
arms up over his head. 

The impact came instantly, with beak and 
claws and powerful wings the old crow closed 
in upon the intruder into his sacred domain. 

Jimmie felt a stunning blow upon his head 
that even through the thickness of his woolen 
cap made his senses reel. Then he received a 
side-stroke from one of the wide wings and felt 
that he was falling. He clutched out to save 
himself and, as his left hand came in contact 
with what he thought was a limb, the fingers in- 
stantly closed upon it. To his surprise and dis- 
may, it offered no great resistance and he top- 
pled sideways out of the tree, dragging some- 
thing heavy with him. 

The something was Billie. In his extremity 
the boy had clutched his stocky leg and held it, 
in his instinctive effort to save himself, with a 
grip of iron. As the two fell from limb to limb 


Little People of the Dust 193 

and then down upon the soft, spongy earth be- 
neath, Billie set up such a strident cawing and 
beat the air so furiously with his wings that the 
boy imagined the whole creation of crows was 
coming down on top of him, but he never relaxed 
his grip and rolled over and over, dragging Bil- 
lie along till they both rolled into the hole which 
had furnished the loam for the oasis. 

As though suddenly overcome by a sense of 
defeat, or perhaps stunned by the sudden turn 
in his fortunes, Billie lay quite still on his back, 
only his beady snapping eyes indicating that he 
still lived. 

Jimmie looked down on him from where he 
knelt, at first with stupefaction, then growing 
wonder. 

“Billy,” he cried hoarsely, and the old crow 
summoned energy enough to give one feeble 
“Caw!” 

Jimmie slowly looked down at his grimy fist, 
which still clutched the crow’s leg. “It was you 
I grabbed,” he said, his wonderment finding au- 
dible expression. 

Billie kicked and flapped his wings a little, 
and the boy released his hold. “Shoo!” he cried, 
and he scrambled to his feet and climbed hastily 
out of one side of the hole, and at the same instant 
in a rush of wings Billie streaked out of the 
other. 


194 Little People of the Dust 

In the mad tumble that had ended the crow’s 
attack the necklace had been dropped. Jimmie 
followed the bird’s swift flight till he was lost 
sight of behind the willows beyond the black 
pool; then he returned to the tree to search for 
his treasure. He found it dangling from a twig 
and the diamond, about on the level with his eye, 
sparkled and flashed as it gently twisted and 
swung to and fro. He looked at it in astonish- 
ment for a second, then seized it eagerly and 
thrust it into his pocket. 

He was very little and very young, but expe- 
rience and sutF ering had made him wiser in some 
things than mere years indicated. 

Instead of rushing off home with a trium- 
phant shout as any normal boy might have done, 
he went slowly back to the tent in the oasis and 
seated himself on the Persian rug. 

A hasty glance around assured him he was 
alone and he drew his treasure from his pocket. 
His heart was beating wildly and his eyes burned 
as he held it up for close inspection. 

“It’s dirty,” he whispered. 

The Fountain of the Sun was circling a bit 
of gray sky in its brown arms just below. He 
slid out of the tent and crouched down on its 
earthenware margin. 

As he scrubbed and cleaned, going carefully 


Little People of the Dust 195 

over each pearl, the diamond twinkled and 
flashed in the water below. 

“I can’t take it to pop,” he reasoned with him- 
self, “ ’c-cause he’d just go an’ drink it all up.” 

A sound behind him made him start with fear. 
He glanced cautiously around, then grinned with 
relief. It was only the toad that had hopped 
across a yellow rain-beaten newspaper and squat- 
ted close behind him, looking up with his throat 
swelling and his dropsical eyes winking ever so 
slowly. Though the cause of that sudden sound 
had been cleared up to the boy’s satisfaction, the 
etFect remained in his heart. For the first time 
in his short life he felt positive fear, and, thrust- 
ing the pearls in his pocket with the diamond 
clasped tightly in his flst, he ran home as fast as 
he could. 

It was growing dusk and the evening star was 
already glinting through the sweeping limbs of 
the old willow. 

As he entered the back door, every nerve in his 
body tingled; cold shivers ran up and down his 
back and he dared not look behind him for fear 
of what he might see. 

His mother was nowhere to be seen; but up- 
stairs he heard the heavy voice of his father 
raised in drunken maledictions. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


I T was very dark when Jimmie had split the 
kindling for the morrow’s fire and carried 
out the ashes and swept the rough kitchen 
floor and eaten his supper, all in dreary solitude, 
for his mother had gone away to a distant neigh- 
bor’s house, and when he slipped out on the front 
porch to consider in silence the great question 
that had been thrust upon him, the bright light 
of Black Peter’s fire shone like a blazing star in 
the depths of the desert. 

To-night he did not sit on the very edge of the 
porch and dangle his feet over as usual, for, when 
he tried it, he became suddenly conscious of the 
dark, open space underneath and withdrew his 
spry legs with a terrifying feeling that some- 
thing was just about to grab them. 

After that he shrank back against the house 
very close to the door and kept his ears wide open 
for unusual sounds. 

With the possession of the necklace had come 
fear which in older persons might be termed re- 
sponsibility. He was no longer the trusting, 
thoughtless child of the hours before, and with 
196 


Little People of the Dust 197 

the passing of this phase of his childhood went 
the unheeding happiness that accompanied 
it. 

He very fully realized the value of the article 
that lay so heavily in his pants’ pocket, for that 
very morning, as he had done every morning 
since its posting, he had read the great lettered 
offer of reward. He found himself repeating it 
softly. 

“Five hundred dollars reward for the return 
of a necklace of pearls with diamond — ” He 
could never remember that word, so he substi- 
tuted “pendulum,” “an’ no questions asked. 
Apply to Mrs. John Perkins, 76 Madison Road.” 
“Five hundred dollars,” he repeated, in tones in 
which wonderment was plainly audible. “Five 
hundred great, big dollars like I saw once drop 
out of pop’s pocket when he was drunk !” 

Somehow the last word became the center of 
his thoughts, around which rapidly clustered a 
new train of ideas. 

He couldn’t tell pop, for pop would take all 
of the five hundred dollars and get drunk, an’ 
maybe die as mother said he would. Mother? 
Nope! He couldn’t tell her, ’cause she always 
give pop what he wanted or got beat, and he 
didn’t want to see her get beat no more. 
“Nope!” he cried aloud, with something like a 
tug at his heart, he couldn’t tell mother, an’ 


198 Little People of the Dust 

anyway she wasn’t home an’ he didn’t know 
where she was. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp 
cough from the house next door. He stiffened 
instantly and listened; again it came — short, 
sharp, and painful. Forgetting for the moment 
the jewels in his pocket, he crept down from 
the porch, slid between the houses, and stood be- 
neath the open windows where Millie slept. The 
little girl broke into renewed coughing. Placing 
his little hands upon the high sill, Jimmie drew 
himself up till his sharp eyes could just see 
above it. 

A tallow candle burned on a plain pine table 
beside a worn cot-bed on which he could plainly 
see the form of his little playmate. Her face 
was turned to the wall and her hair shimmered 
like a mass of beaten gold on the white pillow. 

“Millie, Millie,” he called softly. 

The coughing was smothered instantly and the 
little girl turned over quickly. 

“Does it hurt?” he went on. “Does it hurt you 
when you cough?” 

The blue eyes expressed no surprise as the lit- 
tle head nodded its assent. “It hurts me here 
sometimes,” her thin, transparent fingers lifted 
to her left side. 

The strain was too great for Jimmie’s fingers 
and he dropped back to earth and to a realiza- 


Little People of the Dust 199 

tion of how far he was from the protecting porch. 
His heart seemed to stand still with a queer, 
smothering sensation. He trembled violently as 
he thrust his hand into his pocket ; then with the 
desperation of fear he leaped for the porch, clear- 
ing the ominous space beneath with a bound. 
He cast one wistful look at the fire that burned 
in the desert’s depths and fled to the shelter of 
his own room. 

As he lay on his bed, the necklace beneath his 
pillow, the thought of Millie lingered in his brain. 

“She’s coughin’ an’ it hurts,” he kept repeat- 
ing. “She’s coughin’,” something about the 
phrase brought hack another scene — the doctor; 
and the words he had spoken while Jimmie lay 
flattened out beneath the window — those har- 
rowing words, which he had quite forgotten, 
“There’s death for her out there!” 

“Death! Millie dead!” A strange burning 
sensation crept around his heart, as he recalled 
Black Peter’s words, “There ain’t no tellin’ 
when she’s goin’, ’cause there ain’t no money to 
send her.” 

Suddenly Jimmie sat holt up on the bed. His 
eyes were wide open with the inner understand- 
ing of his heart. “Five hundred dollars,” he 
crowed. “That’ll send her an’ she’ll get well an’ 
come back an’ some day she an’ me’ll get married 
an’ — an’ it’ll be all right.” 


200 Little People of the Dust 

It was a tortured little brain that refused the 
healthy touch of unbroken sleep that night. 
Dreams of dreadful character followed each 
other in wild succession. The pyramid of 
Cheops toppled to destruction amid a general 
conflagration that dwindled and dwindled till it 
became no larger than Black Peter’s evening fire. 

The poster at the entrance to the dump sud- 
denly found itself possessed of speech and he 
heard it shouting the good news of the necklace’s 
recovery in tones that could be heard for miles, 
and once in a frenzy of fear he screamed out- 
right, “Black Peter! Black Peter!” His own 
outcry awakened him. 

“I’ll take it to Black Peter to-morrow,” he 
said softly, “an’ he can go an’ get the money an’ 
take Millie away.” 

The rosy glow of a beautiful September morn- 
ing was tingeing the eastern sky. He lay long 
and watched the colors grow, then fell into a 
quiet sleep of peace. 

He rose late and, after his morning chores had 
been finished and his breakfast eaten, there was 
no time to see Black Peter on the important mat- 
ter he had in mind, so he tucked the precious 
necklace in a carefully chosen hiding-place under 
the porch, stopped to rub his still bewildered 
eyes before the poster, and then went off to 
school. 


Little People of the Dust 201 

From the moment he entered the room the 
wrinkled gray eyes of Miss Evans followed him 
like an accusing spirit. He always had felt 
woefully little and insignificant in the light 
of those eyes, hut to-day his soul shriveled in his 
little body, a haunting fear laying hold of his 
heart lest that all-penetrating gaze should lay 
bare the secret of his mind. He tried to study, 
but his thought ran back and forth between the 
desert and his books. He heard things going on 
about him as though they were happening at 
great distances. Once he looked up. He was 
dimly conscious that his name had been called, 
but so long ago that he thought it must have 
been yesterday. 

‘‘Well,” Miss Evans was saying irritably, 
“why don’t you answer?” 

Jimmie hung his head. 

“Take your hands out of your pockets.” 

He obeyed. 

“From the way you act, Jimmie Jones, one 
might be led to suspect that the pyramid of 
Cheops had fallen on your head.” 

The other twenty-nine snickered at that, 
though of course they had no idea what she 
meant. 

“Sit down, sir!” 

Jimmie plumped into his seat, and when he 
raised his timid eyes five minutes later. Miss 


202 Little People of the Dust 

Evans still had her cold gaze fixed upon 
him. 

The strain was too great even for Jimmie’s 
patient spirit. For the first time in his life he 
left at recess without leave or license and crawled 
around his home on all fours for fear of being 
seen by his mother. Once under the porch he 
was safe. He drew out the brick that concealed 
his treasure. It was gone! No! There it was! 
His heart thumped on his ribs as he drew it 
forth and gazed with fascinated eyes at the dia- 
mond pendant. 

Though he had succeeded in eluding the un- 
suspecting eyes of his mother, not so Millie’s. 
She had spied him through the kitchen window 
and followed him with eager eyes, till his small 
heels vanished under the porch. She had seen 
dogs crawl under porches like that after they had 
been whipped, and the sickening thought came 
over her soul that perhaps Jimmie had been 
whipped, too. Her blue eyes opened wide and 
blazed with wrath. ‘T’ll kill her! I’ll kill 
her!” she cried passionately, stamping one small 
foot, and had Miss Evans seen the determined 
little face at that moment she must have trembled 
for her life. 

She ran out of the front door and a second later 
was on hands and knees, her golden hair hanging 


Little People of the Dust 203 

in wavy curls about her face, peering into the 
dimly lighted depths beneath the porch. 

Jimmie was there; she could see him and he 
was looking at her with startled eyes, but he had 
something in his hands that blazed and gleamed 
and glinted like a bundle of little fires. 

“Oh,” she cried in ecstasy, “what is it?” 

It was gone. Jimmie had shoved it into his 
pocket. Millie crawled in and for a second the 
two faced each other, an eager question in the 
eyes of both. 

“You won’t tell, will you, Millie?” Jimmie’s 
voice had a frightened ring in it. 

“No, course not, but what was it?” 

“I played hookey,” answered Jimmie. “I had 
to.” 

“Did she lick you? I’ll— I’ll— ” The thin 
fingers clenched themselves. 

“No,” answered Jimmie, “I didn’t wait for no 
lickin’. I s’pose I’ll get that to-morrow.” 

Millie laid a soft cheek on his. “She won’t 
dast to,” she whispered. “If she does. I’ll — ^kill 
—her.” 

That was too much for Jimmie; he drew forth 
the necklace and held it up with a triumphant 
crow. 

“Oh, oh!” shouted Millie, forgetting the 
urgency of silence. “Give it to me.” 


204 Little People of the Dust 

But Jimmie shook his head slowly. ‘‘Can’t,” 
he said. “It’s got to be give back. Black 
Peter ’ll give it back an’ get five — ^hundred — dol- 
lars an’ you’ll be took away — ” his voice qua- 
vered, “an’ you’ll get well an’ never cough no 
more.” 

“Five — hundred — dollars!” Millie’s voice was 
full of awe. “That’s ’most all the money there 
is, ain’t it? Let me take it in my hands just 
once. Please!” Again the soft cheek caressed 
his own and, with a promptitude not at all unlike 
that of his older brothers under like compulsion, 
he handed over the gems. 

Millie held the diamond pendant up to the 
light that filtered in through a crack above the 
steps. It flashed with a wonderful out-fling- 
ing of beautiful sparks. She touched it gently 
with her forefinger, then pressed it to her 
cheek. 

“Put it on,” commanded Jimmie. “It won’t 
hurt it none, I guess.” 

She did as ordered. 

“Now you look just like the Queen of Shelby 
that the wonderful book tells about.” 

It had been Jimmie’s intention on leaving 
school to carry the necklace at once to Black 
Peter, but Fate ordered otherwise, for Millie 
returned from a scouting expedition to report 
that he had gone away into the city. 


Little People of the Dust 205 

The boy crawled out at noon, entered the 
house shamefacedly, ate his dinner in silence, 
and crawled back under the porch again. The 
afternoon hours did not drag, however, for Mil- 
lie stayed with him, never tiring of the wonder- 
ful stone that swung from the long string of 
pearls. 

The late afternoon came and went and still 
no Peter. Jimmie ate his supper with growing 
excitement. Night had fallen when he had fin- 
ished his chores and reconnoitered from the front 
porch. To his immense relief a fire winked in 
the depths of the desert. But it was still, out 
there, very still and dark and lonely. Only the 
grandfather frog chonked in the Fountain of the 
Sun. The boy listened. It wasn’t, ‘T wanta 
go home! I wanta go home!” he was saying; 
it was surely, “Why don’t you stay home? 
Why don’t you stay home?” 

But there was work to do, and in his small way 
Jimmie was no coward, though his little soul did 
shrivel before the terrors of the night. 

He laid fast hold of the jewels in his pocket 
and ran as fast as his little legs would carry 
him in the direction of the fire. 

Black Peter was finishing his supper. He 
looked up in surprise as his little friend bounded 
into the circle of light, with eyes that glanced in 
a frightened way over his shoulder. 


2o6 Little People of the Dust 

“What’s after you?” he laughed, “wolves or 
lions?” 

“Shadys,” panted Jimmie. “The shadys 
scared me. I been waiting for you all day.” 

“Me? Ain’t you been to school?” 

“Hooked school,” Jimmie confessed freely. 
“I got somethin’ here.” He pulled out the 
pearls and held them up joyfully. 

It was the diamond that caught Black Peter’s 
eye as it dangled in the air, garnering the gleams 
of the firelight into little sparkling sheaves of 
color. 

At first he seemed stupefied, then he reached 
out one long arm with fingers strangely stiff 
and crooked and seized the necklace with a sud- 
den grasp. He leaned over the fire without a 
word, his red eyes seeming to bore into the jew- 
els in his hand. A hoarse sound rattled in his 
throat, half a chuckle, half a snarl. Then he 
turned his head slowly till the inflamed eyes bore 
on Jimmie. TJie boy shrank from the look he 
beheld in them. 

“Don’t look at me that way,” he whimpered. 
“You never looked at me that way before. 
Ain’t you glad?” 

Black Peter re-collected himself with a start 
and passed his hand heavily over his brow. 
“Where’d you find ’em?” he whispered. 


Little People of the Dust 207 

Billie an’ me found ’em under the pyramid 
of Cheops when they took it away.” 

“Sh!” Black Peter cautioned. “Talk easy. 
Someone might hear you!” 

They both glanced around, but the desert, as 
they well knew, was empty in all its numerous 
acres. 

“Ain’t you glad?” persisted Jimmie. 

“Did you tell anyone, Jimmie?” questioned 
the man. 

“Xope. Only Millie. She saw me crawl un- 
der the porch an’ I had to show it to her.” 

Black Peter took him by the arm roughly. 
“Do you know what they are worth?” 

“Five hundred dollars. The sign says so.” 

The man laughed softly: “Five hundred 
dollars. Fifteen thousand dollars would be 
nearer to it!” 

“You are glad then?” 

Black Peter laughed queerly. “Glad? Of 
course I am glad.” 

“Now little Millie can be took away, can’t 
she ? An’ she’ll git well an’ not cough any more. 
Five hundred dollars will be enough, won’t it?” 

At his words Black Peter shivered and sat 
down heavily on the big can he always used for 
a seat. “Little Millie,” he groaned. Then he 
was silent for a long time. At last he raised his 


2o8 Little People of the Dust 

head; his face looked as though he suffered. “I 
could do it,” he said, in so low a voice that Jim- 
mie couldn’t hear, “but little Millie! I might 
get caught an’ then — ” He reached out one 
hand; it was gentle now. “Jimmie,” he said, 
“here’s the beads. Let’s go to the missionary’s 
home. I’ll go with you so’s no one’ll harm you; 
an’ you tell ’im the whole story, an’ he’ll know 
jes’ what to do.” 

As they walked away side by side into the 
darkness. Black Peter looked up at the bril- 
liant stars. 

“An’ I would ’a’ done it! Oh, God! I would 
’a’ done it.” Then he took Jimmie’s arm softly. 
“Jimmie,” he said tenderly, “you an’ me’ll never 
go back on little Millie, will we?” 


CHAFFER XIX 


W HEN the two arrived at the mission- 
ary’s home, a neat little cottage, whose 
white-columned front porch was green 
now with rose leaves and black here and there 
where a rose slept, they opened the cross- 
barred gate, unheeding its squeal of remon- 
strance, and passed up the pebble-edged walk 
and into the shadows before the door. 

“I think now,” whispered Black Peter, “y^u 
can tell Father Gillin yourself. I would only 
bring dust into his parlor. You won’t need me 
goin’ back, for you must leave the necklace with 
him. Lemme see it again, Jimmie.” He took 
the jewels gingerly and held them close to his 
eyes, and even in the darkness the diamond 
flashed with iridescent sparkles. He thrust the 
gems back into the boy’s hands almost rudely 
and scuffled off down the gravelly path. 

Jimmie heard the gate squeal and bang and he 
softly knocked at the door. 

The missionary was enjoying the one hour of 
relaxation in his long day. It might have been 
expected that he would be found pouring over 
the pages of the great gold-edged Bible that 
209 


210 Little People of the Dust 

dominated the little center table near which he 
was sitting. The exact truth is that he was 
smiling broadly with a suppressed titter now and 
then, that was anything but ministerial, over a 
badly worn copy of The Innocents Abroad, He 
raised his head as the faint knock reached his 
ears, sighed at the interruption, put the Inno- 
cents carefully in a drawer in the table, and rose 
slowly. 

He had expected to see a man or possibly a 
woman, so the direct gaze that he bent outward 
as he opened the door met with nothing but the 
enfolding dark or at most the red-shaded lamp 
that glowed through the window of the house 
opposite. When he did drop his eyes to the lit- 
tle figure below him, his whole bearing softened 
and he laughed heartily, 

“Bless me ! If it isn’t one of the tribes. Come 
in, come in, sirs, every last one of you; sachem, 
and chief bottle-washer. I don’t know,” he 
continued, when Jimmie stood within, not know- 
ing wjiether to laugh or cry, “that the room will 
hold you all, but it’s the best I can do.” He 
bent over till his hands rested on his knees. 
“And what mighty business of state brought you 
here at this hour of night?” 

Jimmie’s tongue, which seldom suffered for 
lack of words, refused to budge in his mouth. 
He looked around the cozy room bewildered; 


Little People of the Dust 211 

then, as though in sudden desperation, thrust his 
hand into his pocket and, reaching to the neth- 
ermost end with a supreme effort, drew forth the 
cause of all his recent disturbances. He held 
it up within an inch of the missionary’s nose and 
that worthy had to sidle hack a step or two be- 
fore he could focus his eyes upon it. When he 
did his jaw dropped a little and he stood in his 
ridiculous attitude as though hypnotized. No 
one could mistake the supreme brilliancy of that 
great diamond that swung back and forth with 
a thousand darting lights centering in its heart. 

When the first shock was over the missionary 
straightened up and his glance lifted to the eyes 
of the tribe with a serio-comic expression that 
Jimmie mistook for one of reproval. 

“And where in the world did you get that, 
Jimmie?” 

At the question the hoy’s tongue loosened. 
Here was something at last his little mind could 
comprehend, and, seated comfortably on the 
missionary’s knee with the necklace gleaming 
upon the gilt-edged Bible, he told the whole 
story from start to finish. 

“And you found it under the pyramid of 
Cheops? Well, well! Bless me! If I didn’t 
know for a fact that I lived in America, I’d be- 
gin to think I was either crazy or had gone to 
Africa.” 


212 Little People of the Dust 

“An’ when I showed it to Black Peter,” went 
on Jimmie, with sparkling eyes, “he grabbed it 
out o’ my hand an’ looked at it as though he 
knew it.” 

“He did, eh? As though he knew it. Of 
course he knew it. Who wouldn’t know it? 
And he knew how much it is worth, too. I’ll war- 
rant.” 

The missionary’s eyes were smiling and he 
reached out to touch the diamond and cause it 
to burst into a protest of sparks as he moved it 
about. “And now, Jimmie,” he resumed, sit- 
ting back in’ his chair, “since we know where 
and how you found it, why did you bring it to 
me?” 

“They’s a big sign what the men left right near 
the road near the dump an’ it says the finder will 
get five hundred dollars reward.” 

The missionary nodded his head. “And you 
want me, as the official representative of the 
tribes, to negotiate for that five hundred?” 

Jimmie looked up, disturbed, then smiled 
bashfully as he noted the widening grin on the 
priest’s face. 

“And why didn’t Black Peter go over and get 
the money for you?” 

“He said to bring the heads to you. You see, 
I don’t want the money.” 

“Don’t want the money!” Father Gillin 


Little People of the Dust 213 

shouted. “In the name of the Saints, what do 
you want?” 

“I want Millie to get well,” answered Jim- 
mie. “She’s sick an’ coughs an’ the doctor says 
if she ain’t took away from the desert she’ll die.” 

The missionary was very still for a second. 

“He said that, did he? And I told him to let 
me know if there was anything serious.” 

“An’ she’s gettin’ thin an’ white an’ can’t play 
no more like she uster, for she ain’t got no wind 
to run with.” 

“God bless us, is that so?” 

“You can see for yourself if you come down 
to-morrow.” 

“I will,” said the priest, “but not to-morrow, 
to-night.” He rose as he spoke and set Jimmie 
on his feet. 

When he had fixed his hat firmly on his head 
and taken up his cane out of the corner and 
turned down the lamp, he thrust the gems into 
his pocket and led the way to the door. “Come 
on, my boy, we’ll go now and to-morrow, God 
willing, the three of us will tramp off to Mrs. 
Perkins’ and see what can be done.” 

Little Millie was in bed when the two arrived 
at the little house under the old willow tree, and 
her mother, weary after a long day’s toil, was 
about ready to retire herself. 

When she opened the door in response to the 


214 Little People of the Dust 

priest’s knock, she was very much surprised and 
a little irritated, for she was very far from being 
one with him on matters of religion. 

“I have come,” began Father Gillin, “because 
I heard that little Millie is sick and needs more 
attention than can be given her.” 

Mrs. Atkins eyed him a moment; then^ melt- 
ing before the warm geniality of his manner, 
opened the door wider and invited him to enter. 
She arranged a chair and turned up the lamp. 

“She is sick,” she admitted, “in her lungs.” 

“The doctor was a friend of mine,” answered 
the priest. “I asked him to notify me if there 
was anything serious. He did not do so, and 
consequently I gave the matter little thought. 
Did he say she must be removed from the neigh- 
borhood of the dump?” 

At that moment there was a subdued coughing 
in the adjoining room. 

“That’s her now,” said Mrs. Atkins. Father 
Gillin listened with anxious drawn face and ex- 
perienced ears to the paroxysm that followed. 

“She must be taken away,” he said finally. 
“Will you give your consent if the way is pro- 
vided?” 

Mrs. Atkins flushed hotly and seemed pain- 
fully embarrassed. 

“I should hate to lose her. Very much!” she 
ventured. 


Little People of the Dust 215 

“But your consent is necessary, if she is to be 
removed to a sanatarium. Will you consent?” 

“I — I cannot say.” 

“As her mother,” insisted Father Gillin, “you 
have the whole say. I assure you it will be to 
an institution that has no connection with the re- 
ligion I profess.” 

“I was not thinking of that, sir,” she answered 
quickly. “There’s someone else you must ask 
and if he consents, I will, of course.” 

“Someone else? Your husband?” 

“Lord, no,” and Mrs. Atkins exploded in in- 
congruous laughter. “Lord, no! I should say 
not!” 

Father Gillin was plainly disconcerted. 
“May I ask where I can find him?” he said, 
rising. 

“Out there in the dump,” answered the wo- 
man, and going to the window she raised the cur- 
tain and pointed out in the darkness. “That’s 
his fire out there and he’s called Black Peter.” 

“But what — ” began Father Gillin, but the 
woman stopped him. 

“If you want to take little Millie away, you 
must see him and that’s all there is to it.” 

Father Gillin took up his hat and cane and 
went out on the porch. 

“Good evening,” he said, “but I can’t under- 
stand.” For answer the door closed after him. 


2i6 Little People of the Dust 

It was with some trepidation of spirit that 
the missionary threaded his cautious way across 
the uneven floor of the desert. He had had one 
experience with its powers to maim that had laid 
him up in the house for nearly a week. When 
he did finally arrive within the illuminating glow 
of the wood fire, he heaved a sigh of relief. 

Black Peter was sitting on an inverted peach- 
basket and, with his chin pillowed in his palms, 
was smoking the pipe of evening peace. 

He sprang up as he became aware of the 
priest’s approach and peered earnestly into the 
dark until he recognized the intruder; then his 
face broke into a broad smile and he extended 
his grimy hand. 

“I didn’t expect you’d come down here, Father 
Gillin, or I’d dropped in on you to save you the 
trouble.” 

“It’s just as well,” answered the priest, lean- 
ing forward on his cane. 

Black Peter had reseated himself in awkward 
embarrassment. 

There was a moment of silence in which the 
minds of both were very busy with similar 
thoughts. 

“Peter,” said the priest kindly, “you have been 
in the dump a long while now?” 

“ ’Most ten years. Father Gillin.” 

“A long time,” said the missionary, “and it’s 


Little People of the Dust 217 

queer, for it’s nearly the same length of time I 
have been in St. Mary’s.” 

Black Peter smoked on with a noisy, regular 
smacking of his lips. 

“And it’s queerer still that in all those years 
you should have been here and I there and we 
not come to know each other better than we 
did.” 

Black Peter took down his pipe with slow, 
stiff fingers. 

“Sure, why should you be knowin’ me. Fa- 
ther?” 

“Because,” answered the missionary, “you are 
an honest man, honest under temptation, and 
there’re so few of them, God knows, that it’s a 
shame to miss knowing one.” 

Black Peter was plainly embarrassed, for he 
crossed his short, stubby legs and quickly un- 
crossed them again, then turned slowly and 
looked up at the good priest with his bleary red 
eyes full of inquiry. 

“Little Jimmie has told me, Peter, how he 
showed you the pearls and asked your advice. 
They were worth thousands of dollars and you 
knew it.” 

“Yes, I knew it. Father,” said Black Peter, 
carefully resetting the pipe in his worn 
teeth. 

“He also told me of Millie’s sickness and the 


2i8 Little People of the Dust 

desire of both of you that she be taken away from 
this death here.’’ 

Black Peter nodded his head. “So I came 
down at once and interviewed her mother, Mrs. 
Atkins, as to whether she would consent if the 
opportunity offered.” 

Black Peter raised his head eagerly. “What 
did she say?” His words were sharp and full 
of expectancy. 

“Well,” answered the priest, “she said I must 
consult you.” 

“Me?” The single word was exploded with 
an energy that brought the man to his feet. 

“Yes, you!” said Father Gillin calmly. 

“Ah, well,” said the other, “I told her — but 
then maybe it’s jes’ as well.” 

“I was thinking Mrs. Perkins might be inter- 
ested, under the circumstances.” 

“Do you think she would take her?” 

“Perhaps not into her own home,” answered 
the priest, “but she certainly will provide a suit- 
able place for her or pay the reward, in which 
case we can do as much for her ourselves. 

“I know this Mrs. Perkins well,” he went on, 
“as I know nearly everyone in this city, for my 
labors have carried me into many a nook and 
cranny of the place.” 

Black Peter nodded his unkempt head in as- 
sent. 


Little People of the Dust 219 

“And it’s my opinion that she’s a motherly 
and kind-hearted woman, who would be glad to 
see little Millie well cared for.” 

They were both silent a long while, then Black 
Peter’s long grimy hand reached out and tapped 
the missionary on the arm. 

“If you had a little girl like — like Millie, Fa- 
ther Gillin, that you loved,” his voice trembled 
and sank to a low tone, “so that the sight of her 
filled your heart with joy an’ this thought of 
her — ” his voice broke, “dying, seemed like dying 
yourself, would you, answer me, as a priest of 
God, would you trust her to this Mrs. Perkins?” 

It was the missionary’s time to remain silent, 
and he did and his thought was very serious as 
he gazed into the dying embers of the fire. 

“I would!” he said, at last. “I think she 
would be safe.” 

“Then,” said Black Peter, “take Millie to her. 
Take her to-morrow.” His voice was strangely 
triumphant and had a ring of such heart-deep 
sincerity that the priest started. 

“But her mother. Has she nothing to say 
in the matter?” 

Black Peter laughed a queer, hoarse cackle of 
a laugh, then he bent and stirred up the fire and 
threw on a few more sticks. When he had fin- 
ished he straightened up and looked the priest 
in the eye. 


220 Little People of the Dust 

“Her mother won’t mind,” he said dryly, “if 
I say so, and I can’t jes’ tell you why, either, 
’cause that’d be goin’ pretty deep into some fam- 
ily history that is jes’ as well hidden where it 
is.” 

“Mrs. Perkins may ask You know, 

Peter, some people are set against — against — ” 

“Go on,” said Black Peter. “You mean the 
little ones that come without ezactly bein’ in- 
vited, God pity ’em.” 

“I mean just that,” said the priest. 

Black Peter straightened up. 

“Then you tell Mrs. Perkins, if you want to, 
that little Millie is not one o’ them,” his voice 
faltered, “that she’s been loved from the night 
of her birth with all the love my old heart could 
give her.” 

“Then,” said the priest, “you’re her — ” 

Black Peter stopped him. “You’re a priest 
of God,” he cried. “Go your way an’ say what 
I said an’ let the judgment rest here on my soul 
if there is a judgment to rest anywhere.” 

Father Gillin shook his head as though mys- 
tified, but said no more, for the man before him 
was laboring in the throes of a great emotion. 

“Good-by, Peter,” he said at last, extending 
his hand. 

“Good-by,” said the other. 

“May God bless you,” said the priest, and he 


Little People of the Dust 221 

raised his right hand, “and may His judgment 
deal as kindly with me as it will with you/’ 

He was gone, and Black Peter sat weakly 
back on the old basket, his legs trembling and his 
hands shaking on his knees. 

Silence, edged only by the low trill of silver- 
tongued frogs, from the region of the black pool, 
settled down, and peace, for there was peace even 
in the heart of the Beaver Creek dump. 


CHAPTER XX 


S O the missionary and Millie and Jimmie 
came in due time to the great stone house 
on the hill, and when they had entered F a- 
ther Gillin spoke. 

“Allow me to introduce, my dear Mrs. Per- 
kins, the savage tribes of the interior!” 

Mrs. Perkins was evidently surprised by so 
unusual an introduction. Her large blue eyes 
widened a little, then smiled just a tiny bit. To 
Jimmie, who was watching her narrowly, there 
seemed to creep into their wonderful depths a 
look of deep pity and tenderness as they rested 
on the golden head of little Millie. Of course, 
he was too little to know just what he felt, but 
his little heart warmed to the lady of the blue 
eyes. 

“She loves little Millie, too, as everyone does,” 
ran through his head, and the hand he reached 
out to clasp hers shook just a bit. 

“What lovely little savage tribes!” the lady 
of the blue eyes answered, “and of what inte- 
rior, Father?” 

“The desert,” answered the missionary. 
“The wide and illimitable desert.” 


222 


Little People of the Dust 223 

The smile in the blue eyes was unmistakable 
now. “What a wonderful desert it must be,” 
she laughed, “to have such dear little tribes in- 
habiting it.” 

“Dear?” cried the missionary. “Very savage, 
Mrs. Perkins. I am sure,” he raised his hands 
in mock seriousness, “that if I were not so lean 
and scrawny, I should have gone into the boil- 
ing-pot long ago.” 

Mrs. Perkins’ merry laugh brought a smile 
to the faces of the two tribes. 

“I don’t doubt you deserved it,” she flung 
back, “and you are awfully lean and scrawny.” 

Father Gillin laughed heartily till he caught 
Millie’s eyes on his waistcoat, then he sobered 
suddenly. 

“Come right in here,” said Mrs. Perkins, “for 
I know there must be very serious business of 
state to be attended to when the whole popula- 
tion gathers to the council.” 

She led the way out of the brilliant hall, past 
a noble carved lion that crouched on the low 
partition, seemingly about to lash his tufted tail 
and roar. 

“And now, little man,” she said, seating herself 
on the very edge of a beautiful chair, and lean- 
ing over so as to look straight into Jimmie’s 
eyes, “what does the good father mean, when he 
talks of tribes and deserts?” 


224 Little People of the Dust 

She was holding little Millie’s thin hand in 
hers, and how very soft and warm and comfort- 
able her hand felt and how the pretty rings twin- 
kled and glittered on the dainty fingers. 

“He’s only foolin’,” said Jimmie bashfully, 
with a glance at the worthy missionary who sat 
now twirling his thumbs, apparently much 
amused. 

“There ain’t no desert, ’cept a play-desert.” 

“Why, Father!” Mrs. Perkins’ eyes were 
plainly reproving as they rested on the mission- 
ary’s face. 

“But there is, my dear Mrs. Perkins, despite 
what one tribe has just said. There is a very 
vast and interminable desert ; a very real, sad des- 
ert for all that it lies in the very heart of your 
fair city.” 

The blue eyes turned to Millie. 

“You tell me, dear.” 

Millie’s eyes fell. 

“It’s only the Beaver Creek dump, ma’am.” 

“The Beaver Creek dump?” 

The smile faded in the blue eyes and a pained, 
sorrowful look overcast the pleasant face. She 
turned to the missionary. He had sat back in 
the wide-armed chair. His kindly face looked 
older; the beaming, good-natured smile had fied, 
and his eyes looked as though they had seen much 
suff ering in the days they had looked out on life. 


Little People of the Dust 225 

He nodded his head slowly. 

“And isn’t that desert enough, God knows?” 

For a second the blue eyes looked fixedly at 
the good missionary’s face; then they dropped 
to the golden head of little INIillie and her white 
soft arms crept up till they closed around the 
thin shoulders and drew them close to her moth- 
erly heart. 

Something stuck in Jimmie’s throat. It felt 
so uncomfortable that he raised his hand and 
tried to relieve the pain it caused, and his keen 
eyes caught the hand of the missionary doing 
the very same thing, only the missionary’s eyes 
glittered like the violets under the old barberry 
bush after the rain. 

The missionary cleared his throat with a loud 
“Ahem!” Mrs. Perkins’ head lifted slowly and 
the wonderful blue eyes were more wonderful 
still, for they shone with a luster and tender 
clearness that made them look like stars. 

“As ambassador for the tribes, I feel that, in 
justice to them, I must now bring to your at- 
tention the business in hand.” 

The missionary had shaken off his care and 
smiled once more. Even Jimmie and Millie 
smiled, but the face of Mrs. Perkins was 
strangely sad. 

“As the first diplomatic move, my dear Mrs. 
Perkins, I would suggest that the little Amazon 


226 Little People of the Dust 

be induced to withdraw herself from the confer- 
ence.” 

Mrs. Perkins rose and to the wide-eyed sur- 
prise of the tribes stuck her forefinger deliber- 
ately in the left eye of the beautifully carved lion. 
The lion never winked, though Jimmie did in- 
stinctively. 

“The tribes wonder,” said the missionary, with 
a hearty laugh, “why the lady sticks her finger 
into the lion’s eye?” 

“Why? — Oh, I had really forgotten that that 
was a funny thing to do. I have done it so 
many times.” Whereat, Jimmie wondered and 
prepared to revise his opinion of the lady with 
the blue eyes. As for Millie, she knew it must 
be all right, since the great lady did it, and she 
was prepared to follow her example at the earli- 
est possible opportunity. 

“You see, my little tribes, that is not an eye 
at all, but an electric button that summons my 
maid. If you listen you can hear her coming 
now.” They did hear her quick steps, and saw 
the door open and a slight, neat-looking girl ap- 
pear from behind it. 

Mrs. Perkins whispered something in her ear 
and she immediately took an intense interest in 
Millie. She knelt down before her and laid 
her hands on her shoulders, as lightly as a feather 
Millie thought, and smiled so pleasantly that 


Little People of the Dust 227 

Jimmie could have kissed her without blushing. 

“Won’t you come with me?” she said softly. 
“I’ll take you out into the garden and show you 
all the pretty flowers and give you some, too,” 
and her words were so alluring that Millie shook 
her golden head and followed 'her away with a 
backward glance at Jimmie and a fleeting one 
for the missionary and a very lingering, loving 
one for the lady with the blue eyes. 

When the door had closed softly behind them, 
a feeling of loneliness crept over the one remain- 
ing tribe ; his face clouded and his eyes were trou- 
bled, for though he was very little, his heart was 
very full of the still littler Millie, and why should 
it not be? Hadn’t he alone, well he and Black 
Peter at most, been the only ones who thought 
of her and talked of her and worried when she 
coughed and the city doctor came? 

When the last footstep had been heard, Mrs. 
Perkins turned slowly to Jimmie. 

“And you shall see the flowers, too. Do you 
like flowers?” 

Jimmie nodded. 

“You should see the oasis,” interjected the 
missionary. “The only bright green spot in the 
whole desert, and the wonderful things that 
bloom there in the very teeth of the dust- 
devils.” 

“An oasis?” cried Mrs. Perkins, in surprise. 


228 Little People of the Dust 

“A garden in the Beaver Creek dump? Come, 
tell me about it!” 

Jimmie could hardly believe the evidence of 
his senses, but the lady with the blue eyes actu- 
ally took his arm and drew him so close to her 
that he felt the soft silken fold of her dress on 
his cheek. He cast a half -smiling, half -sheepish 
glance at the missionary, who seemed to be gloat- 
ing over the queer predicament of the tribe. 

“There’s petunies an’ poppies, lots o’ poppies, 
an’ mary gold an’ onions in the oasis.” 

“Onions? For mercy sake! Where did the 
onions come from?” 

“We found ’em tryin’ to grow in a heap of 
dirt, and they wuz all bent and mixed up with 
each other, an’ we felt sorry for ’em, an’ so we 
planted ’em over and they’re so nice.” 

Mrs. Perkins glanced at the missionary. 

“Tell the lady of the great squash blossom!” 

Jimmie’s eyes brightened and he bent his head 
back so he could look into the blue eyes. 

“Oh! It’s as big as a cup,” he said, with ex- 
citement, “an’ shines like solid gold; an’ an old 
bumble-bee just loves it, like I do candy, ’cause 
he’s always there sayin’, ‘Yum, yum! Yum, 
yum!’ and Jimmie’s voice lingered on the “yums” 
and drew them out till they sounded wonderfully 
like a foolish old bumble-bee thoroughly enjoy- 
ing himself. 


Little People of the Dust 229 

Mrs. Perkins laughed softly and the old mis- 
sionary shook his fat sides, and — now that Mil- 
lie was gone — even shook the region of his waist- 
coat. 

“You must really see that wonderful oasis, for 
it is wonderful; every tiny acre of it reclaimed 
by the most exacting toil from the clutches of 
the desert. But dear, dear, how time flies!” 

His great gold watch was in his hand as he 
spoke. “We must get down to business. Now, 
Mrs. Perkins, you may not have noticed it, but 
Little Millie is very thin and her face is pale — ” 

“An’ she coughs somethin’ fierce,” broke in 
Jimmie. 

“Yes,” assented the missionary sadly, “she 
does, poor child — ” 

“And the doctor says there’s death in the desert 
dust for her if she stays there,” broke in Jimmie 
again, his wide eyes flxed in alarm on the wonder- 
ful blue eyes above him. 

“And Jimmie has come with a little proposition 
of his own, all his own, Mrs. Perkins, I assure 
you.” 

“What is it, Jimmie, what can I do?” Her 
soft voice was close to his ear. 

The old missionary sat back in his chair as 
though satisfied that his part in the proceedings 
was over. 

With a dispatch that would have brought a 


230 Little People of the Dust 

blush to an older diplomatist, Jimmie struck 
through to the heart of the matter without say" 
ing a word. 

His little hand dived into his side pants’ 
pocket; he bent over a little to reach to the very 
bottom, then withdrew his arm and the little 
hand flashed up with the wonderful string of 
pearls, frantically dancing beneath it. 

Mrs. Perkins first smiled indulgently, then as 
the pearls composed themselves, and became 
plainly visible, and the diamond pendant flashed, 
the blue eyes widened, widened, and looked first 
at Jimmie then at the broad-smiling missionary 
then back to the pearls again. 

“Why!” she cried, with a happy broken laugh, 
“they’re the long-lost pearls,” and Jimmie nod- 
ded his head and stood on one leg and eyed them 
as though he had never seen them before. Then 
he placed them in the eager, outstretched hand 
and looked at the missionary. When Mrs. Per- 
kins had looked long and hard at the beads and 
pressed them to her bosom, she looked up at 
little Jimmie with tears of happiness starting in 
the blue eyes. 

“For goodness’ sake! Where did you find 
them?” 

“Under the pyramid of Cheops,” answered 
the tribe. “When the street men tore down the 
pyramid me’n Billie seen ’em at onct. He got 


Little People of the Dust 231 

’em first but I got ’em last, ’cause he’s only an 
old crow. He picked me in the head though 
an’ I pulled his leg.” 

“Ha! Ha!” laughed the missionary. “Ho! 
Ho! You pulled his leg? What will John 
Hodges say about that?” 

Mrs. Perkins laughed merrily and Jimmie 
joined in, though he did not understand why. 

When the lady of the blue eyes had recovered 
from her surprise and joy at regaining the neck- 
lace she referred again to the place of its dis- 
covery. 

“The pyramid of Cheops,” she exclaimed. “I 
really feel. Father, as if I were in Africa. 
Under the pyramid of Cheops! And where did 
you learn about the pyramid of Cheops?” 

“From the wonderful book.” 

“You have never heard of the wonderful book, 
Mrs. Perkins!” interrupted the missionary. “It 
truly is wonderful, and it has had such wonder- 
ful infiuence over the tribes.” 

“I am beginning to believe. Father, that I 
have missed a great deal in never having jour- 
neyed but once to the great desert which the 
tribes inhabit.” 

“A great deal, a great deal,” said the good 
missionary. 

Mrs. Perkins did not answer at once, for her 
blue eyes could not stay away long from the 


232 Little People of the Dust 

beautiful pearls. When she did speak, she 
changed the subject abruptly. “I suppose you 
wonder why I think so much of this string of 
pearls?” 

“They’re very pretty,” said Jimmie, “an’ they 
look fine on Millie’s neck.” 

“It’s because they once looked ever so nice on 

another little girl’s neck,” The blue 

eyes filled with tears — “my little girl’s neck — 
that I love them so.” 

At this, Jimmie stared into the blue eyes in 
silent wonderment. He was vaguely uncom- 
fortable, though he couldn’t understand why. 

“Aren’t you glad to get them back?” he que- 
ried, thinking perhaps the pearls were the cause 
of the sorrow that he saw. 

“Glad?” cried Mrs. Perkins. “You dear little 
fellow, I’m wild with joy,” and again Jimmie 
wondered how a person could be wild with joy 
and look as sad as the lady before him. “And 
you’re to have the reward too, every cent that I 
offered.” 

“I think,” said the missionary, “it’s on that 
very point that the tribe wishes to arbitrate.” 

The little sally brought a smile to both faces 
and again Jimmie felt the lady’s soft warm arms 
about him. 

He looked up into her face and spoke with sud- 
den earnestness. 


Little People of the Dust 233 

“I don’t want the money. I only want you 
to get Millie away from the desert for a long 
while so she can get well, so she won’t die.” 
His lips quivered, “I don’t want her to die' — an’ 
— the doctor — ” but he never finished the sen- 
tence for his two little fists found themselves sud- 
denly boring into his eyes and his voice trailed 
off into inarticulate sobbings. He felt the soft 
arms draw him closer and closbr and heard the 
missionary blow his nose with sudden excessive 
violence. 

“And so the tribe thought that if you would 
see that Millie were removed from the pestilen- 
tial breath of the desert to some oasis in the wide 
world where the winds were not filled with dust, 
he would gladly give up the handsome reward 
you offered.” The missionary’s sally brought 
no smile this time, and Jimmie became so closely 
folded in the soft arms that he had to wiggle 
suddenly to keep from being smothered. 

“You dear little fellow,” said the soft voice in 
his ear, “and you love her — little Millie?” He 
nodded his head vigorously. 

“And you love her so well that you are willing 
to give her up and have her go away, far, far 
away to where the blue hills are always sweet 
and clear? I think. Father Gillin, that you and 
I can learn from this little heart the meaning of 
true unselfishness.” 


234 Little People of the Dust 

The missionary nodded, for once his big voice 
refused to budge under orders. 

Jimmie had recovered from his sense of im- 
pending loss and proceeded to get down to busi- 
ness again. 

“It’s a fair trade, ain’t it?” 

“Indeed it is, Jimmie,” answered Mrs. Per- 
kins, “and I’ll do my share. What about her 
parents, Father Gillin?” 

“It is highly important, now that that subject 
has been reached, to ask the remaining tribe to 
withdraw from the conference.” 

Again Mrs. Perkins stuck her finger into the 
lion’s eye and Jimmie winked for him and then 
went off in the wake of the maid to visit Millie 
where she sat entranced in the midst of a glo- 
rious garden. 

“The question of her parentage is settled,” said 
the priest. “You need not worry about that. I 
have all the consent necessary.” 

The two were silent a long time looking at 
each other, 

“I’ll take her. Father,” said Mrs. Perkins at 
last, “and give her everything that a mother’s love 
can devise. Do — do you think that she can be 
cured?” 

“The doctor says so,” answered the priest, “if 
the case is taken in time.” 

“Can you leave her with me now?” 


Little People of the Dust 235 

“As well as to-morrow,” said the priest. “I 
have the full consent of the people who have 
raised her.” 

“And now about little Jimmie, of course he 
must have the reward.” 

The priest raised his hand, but the blue eyes 
flashed. 

“Why, I wouldn’t think of dickering with that 
little dear on a question like this.” 

“The tribe would be deeply oiFended,” said 
the missionary, “and besides it would be ruinous 
to give him the money now. He has a father, a 
good for nothing, drunken rascal, that would 
never rest till he had the last cent of it.” 

“Then,” said Mrs. Perkins, “the money goes to 
you, in trust for him. He need never know till 
the need comes, and the need will come, poor 
little dear.” 

“The need will come,” echoed the priest. 

“You will take the money then?” 

“I will,” said the missionary, “for the benefit 
of a very deserving and unselfish little tribe.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


T he days following Millie’s departure 
from the desert had indeed been sad and 
lonely ones for Black Peter and little 

Jimmie. 

The former solaced himself by harder work 
and a visit now and then to the huddled city be- 
yond, where he actually entered a picture show 
or, more often, lounged on some corner abstract- 
edly watching the slow procession of human 
kind. 

Jimmie had no such diversions to occupy his 
thought and being small and long accustomed 
to the society of the little girl, wept often in 
sheer loneliness and emptiness of heart. He 
had the wonderful book to be sure, and the 
oasis and the Fountain of the Sun and Billie, 
but from all of these, with the going of little 
Millie, seemed to have passed away a glory and 
a charm which his untutored spirit tried in vain 
to recall. It was as though the mainspring of 
his existence had been snapped and everything 
in his little circle of life was quietly slowing 
down and would eventually come to a full stop 
with ensuing unbroken monotony. 

236 


Little People of the Dust 237 

Little green strangers appeared on the 
hitherto exclusive oasis, and, presuming at the 
toleration shown them, grew and threw up leaves 
and stems, and, growing bolder, encroached with 
amazing insolence upon the staid old residents 
themselves. Now and then Jimmie resented 
the impertinence and made sad havoc among the 
newcomers but his efforts were spasmodic and 
not long continued and new weeds, undaunted 
by previous experiences, grew up like soldiers 
of the dragon’s teeth to take the places of those 
ejected. 

Billie was a source of more effective amuse- 
ment and day after day and Saturdays after 
school the boy lay under the outspread tent, 
watching the movements of the old crow. With 
his little spirit yearning for excitement, he even 
carried a cat into the desert and turned it loose 
and danced and shouted as Billie rose manfully 
to the occasion. 

And the fall had come; the dreamy, reflective 
days of falling leaf and fading flower. The 
barberry bush on the desert’s edge was gay as a 
gypsy queen with its thousand coral pendants. 
The mullein, like an Indian chief, stood tall and 
straight on its mat of woolly leaves and over- 
looked the waste with pride in every one of its 
bright yellow eyes. 

Miss Evans had noticed the increasing sad- 


238 Little People of the Dust 

ness of the little boy who sat in the third seat 
from the last of the farthest row, and laid the 
abstracted look in his gray eyes to his habit of 
indolence which she said was fast growing upon 
him. Three times in the morning in question 
she had brought him back from the contempla- 
tion of happier days in which his spirit had 
sought consolation, by a sharp word of rebuke. 
At last, in desperation, she summoned him to 
her desk where he stood with lowered head, re- 
pentantly regarding the new pair of shoes that 
that very morning the missionary had brought 
down to him. 

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked 
sharply. 

“Nothin’,” he answered. 

“Are you sick?” 

“No’m.” 

“Then why don’t you study instead of sitting 
there mooning all day long?” 

“Can’t study,” he said simply. 

“Can’t study? Why not?” 

“I keep thinkin’,” he said hopefully, raising 
his eyes. 

“You keep thinking of what?” 

“Of Millie,” he confessed, awkwardly shifting 
his feet. 

“You’re a fine size to keep thinking of a little 
girl so much that you can’t study.” Then, as 


Little People of the Dust 239 

though realizing that the insinuation in her words 
was too harsh, she added more gently. “Don’t 
you know you’ll never amount to anything if 
you don’t study?” 

A little spirit of rebellion rose in the boy’s 
heart. 

“I don’t care,” he mumbled. 

“Why, Jimmie Jones!” 

*‘I’ll never amount to nothin’, anyway,” he said 
with trembling voice. 

Of course he didn’t mean it; for only three 
days before, he and the missionary had gone over 
some very glorious plans for the future in which 
he figured very prominently and amounted to 
very much. But he was lonely and unhappy 
and afflicted with that strange illness which 
comes into the heart of every human being, rob- 
bing the rainbow of its hues and the rosiest pros- 
pects of all the allurements of hope. 

Miss Evans sat back in her chair in astonish- 
ment. 

“It’s dirt,” she said finally, “dirt is at the bot- 
tom of it all!” She drew her mesh-bag from the 
desk drawer before her and extracted a nickel 
from its depths. “Now, Jimmie,” she said, lean- 
ing towards him impressively, “I want you to 
take this nickel and buy a cake of soap. You 
better get the yellow washing kind, it is 
stronger.” 


240 Little People of the Dust 

As Jimmie lifted his grimy hand for the 
money Miss Evans changed her mind. “No,” 
she said, “I think you had better get the white 
kind with sand in it. Ask for scouring soap. 
What will you ask for?” 

“Scourin’ soap,” he answered. 

“And now you get it, and use it! Scour those 
hands white and clean and then you’ll begin to 
think you’ll amount to something.” 

At recess the janitor entered. He was hale 
and hearty ; a retired army man, with a big heart 
and a few wayward habits. His face was very 
sober as he stood by Miss Evans’ desk. 

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he ventured a little dif- 
fidently, “but I thought you might like to know 
that Jimmie Jones’ father has just been killed.” 

Miss Evans sat back in her chair and her 
hands dropped to her sides. “Killed?” 

“Yes,” went on the army man. “Killed 
crossing Main street. Drunk, I guess. Was 
run down. I knew him and saw the accident.” 
The army man smiled affably. 

“Does Jimmie know it?” asked the teacher. 

“No’m. That’s why I come in. I thought 
you’d better tell him instead of the children. 
It’ll be all over the yard in ten minutes.” 

“Bring him in, will you please?” she re- 
quested. She leaned her chin on her palm; the 
gray eyes softened; and all the sternness — that 


Little People of the Dust 241 

had become part of their stock in trade — was 
gone. 

When Jimmie entered, in dire trepidation and 
full of wonderment, she bade him sit down on a 
chair she placed close to her own. 

In her eventful life she had faced many em- 
barrassing situations but the experience gained 
therefrom seemed of no practical value in the 
case in hand. It suddenly became tremen- 
dously difficult to talk simply and naturally to 
the expectant little boy at her side. 

“Jimmie,” she said at last, “do you know 
that you must die sometime?” 

“Die,” cried Jimmie, “when?” 

“Oh, not now,” assured Miss Evans hastily, 
“not for a long time, I hope.” 

“What for?” wailed Jimmie in genuine alarm. 
He had heard of criminals being condemned to 
death and the idea that perhaps he might be 
slated for the same fate on account of his grimy 
hands filled him with terror. 

Miss Evans saw that she had blundered sadly 
in her attempt to put death upon a general 
basis. 

“We must all die, Jimmie. Every one of us, 
sometime; as for you, I think you will live a 
great deal longer than I and I hope you 
will.” 

Jimmie was mystified but a little comforted 


242 Little People of the Dust 

by these words as they seemed to imply no im- 
mediate prospect of his taking off. 

Miss Evans was about to proceed on another 
tack when the classroom door suddenly opened 
and none other than the missionary popped in 
his massive head. 

“Bless — ^me! There' — ^you — are, Jimmie — 
Jones,’’ he cried, as he entered. He was so 
badly out of breath that each word came out 
separately with a distinct emphasis of its own. 

“I’m Patrick — Gillin,” he panted to Miss 
Evans, “Rector of St. Mary’s church.” 

Miss Evans rose and Jimmie slid out of his 
chair to make way for the heavy person of the 
newcomer. 

When Father Gillin had mopped the beads of 
moisture from his brow and somewhat recovered 
himself, he took a long breath, drew himself up 
in the chair and turned to Miss Evans. 

“Have you told him?” he questioned. 

“I was just going to,” answered Miss Evans; 
“I found the task difficult.” 

“No doubt! No doubt!” said the missionary. 
He lifted Jimmie onto his knee. 

“Will you be a brave little boy if I tell you 
something?” 

Jimmie nodded. 

“It’s about your father.” 

“I know,” said Jimmie, “he’s drunk again,” 


Little People of the Dust 243 

“No, no, he isn’t,” corrected the priest. “I’m 
afraid he’s gone away and will never come back.” 

The boy smiled. “Has he?” 

Miss Evans was horror-stricken at Jimmie’s 
exhibition of pleasure. 

“Then mother won’t never be afraid he’s 
cornin’ home to beat her, will she?” 

“Never again,” answered the priest. 

“An’ she won’t cry no more when he spends 
all his money down in the saloon?” 

“That’s all past now,” said the priest. 

“Then I’m glad. Me’n mother can live alone 
an’ Black Peter can come when he wants to an’ 
sit right in the parlor with both of us.” 

The missionary smiled, for in his honest heart 
he was glad, too. Now that Jimmie’s position 
was clear it seemed easy to finish the revelation. 

“Your father is dead,” said the priest, “and 
I’ve come to take you home, if Miss Evans will 
let me.” 

“Dead? Father dead?” wailed Jimmie and 
his grimy fists flew to his eyes and sobs shook his 
slender frame. “I thought — ^he was — just — 
gone — away,” he cried. “I thought — he was — 
just gone — away.” 

The missionary folded him in his great arms 
and Miss Evans even stroked the grimy hands 
and wondered at their extreme coarseness. 

While they sat thus, partly to divert Jimmie’s 


244 Little People of the Dust 

attention and partly for Miss Evans’ benefit, the 
good priest told the story of the desert and its 
transformation; of Black Peter and the necklace 
and Jimmie’s unselfishness and finally the new 
dawn that had come for little Millie. 

Miss Evans listened with rapt attention and 
slowly changing features. Her eyes had be- 
gun to see the beautiful things that lay far down 
in the depths of Jimmie’s life, under the wizened 
face and the rough, grimy hands. 

When he had finished she leaned her chin in 
her palm and averted her face from the mission- 
ary. There was a suspicious glisten in the gray 
eyes and a queer drawn look about the firm lips. 

“Oh,” she cried suddenly, “what a cruel, 
cruel fool I have been.” She turned her wide 
eyes to the priest’s face, “but I never knew, how 
could I know? Jimmie,” she whispered, “for- 
give me for all I have said to you, for I didn’t 
understand.” 

No word was said but the little chubby fingers 
closed over hers with a grip more expressive than 
speech. 

The class had begun to file in, all eyes and 
wonderment. 

When the missionary and Jimmie arrived at 
the little house under the spreading willow, they 
found Black Peter sitting on the front porch. 


Little People of the Dust 245 

For a full moment the priest and the man 
looked each other in the eye without a word. 

“Where is she?” questioned the priest. 

“Up town,” answered Black Peter as he rose. 
“Will you do me a favor, Father?” 

“Indeed I will, Peter.” 

“Then take this.” Black Peter handed him a 
small roll of bills. “See that he’s buried decent 
for Jimmie’s sake and give the rest to her and 
tell her to stay here until I come back, for I’ll be 
gone some time.” 

“Gone some time, Peter?” 

“Yes, I’m goin’ away for maybe a month. 
I’ve got to go.” 

“Peter,” said the priest in a low voice, “you 
can’t fool me, man. I know well why you are 
going away. God bless you for a noble Chris- 
tian. I’ll do as you say and I’ll see she waits 
here and — but say, Peter, three weeks will be 
long enough in a case like this, I am sure.” 

When Jimmie went back to school a week 
later, he was cordially received by everyone, for 
somehow the story of the necklace had gone 
abroad. 

Miss Evans called him to her desk at recess 
time. She had a bright dollar, big and heavy in 
one hand and a needle and thread in the other. 

“Take off your coat,” she said kindly. “Now, 
Jimmie,” she said as she worked, “I’m sewing 


246 Little People of the Dust 

this nice new dollar in the bottom of your long 
pocket and you are never to touch it or take it 
out unless you’re hungry; then you’re to rip out 
the stitches and use the money as you see fit.” 

“Can I give some to mother too, if she’s 
hungry?” 

“Yes, to be sure. It’s for both of you, though 
I guess you’ll neither of you ever need this be- 
lated offering of mine.” 

As he strutted proudly away she looked after 
him. 

“The darling little fellow! I feel easier now 
and I’m sure he does.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


B lack peter had returned. He had 
come like an Arab in the evening watches, 
and again his fire twinkled in the heart 
of the desert. 

It was Jimmie who saw it and the shout of 
delirious joy that he raised and the manner in 
which he pranced and capered with delight 
brought his silent mother to her feet in alarm. 

“Look! Look, Mother! Peter’s back! Black 
Peter’s back! Oh, goody!” And he set off 
again on a wild caper around the small front 
room. 

The mother looked indeed and smiled and her 
hands lifted to her breast to still the wild beat- 
ing of the heart within. 

Yes, there could be no doubt. Black Peter was 
back. And even as the two looked, something 
passed between the fire and them and they both 
knew it was he and both were glad. 

“An’ now we won’t be lonesome, will we?” 
asked Jimmie, “an’ Peter’ll come an’ sit here an’ 
tell us stories, an’ maybe we’ll all dance like me’n 
Millie an’ him done once on the oasis.” 

His mother smiled happily and took down a 
247 


248 Little People of the Dust 

gray shawl that hung beside the door and threw 
it over her head. She felt in the bodice of her 
dress and drew out a long, legal-looking docu- 
ment. 

‘‘Come,” she said slowly, “Peter’s got to have 
this to-night. It’s been waitin’ three days.” 

Black Peter was bending over his fire when 
they arrived. He straightened up as he heard 
their feet tinkle on the cinders but did not turn 
around until the woman touched him on the 
shoulder. 

“We saw your fire,” she said simply. 

“Mary,” he cried, seizing her arms, then his 
eyes fell on little Jimmie and he relaxed his hold 
and smiled. 

“This came day before yesterday,” went on 
the woman with a voice that trembled percepti- 
bly, though she tried to suppress the emotion she 
felt. 

Black Peter took the document and bending 
over the blaze of his fire removed the contents and 
scanned them eagerly. 

“The Perkinses want to adopt Millie,” he said 
finally, straightening up. 

“Will you let ’em, Peter?” 

“I don’t know,” he answered, “ ’hat’ll be as 
the missionary says. You wouldn’t mind, Mary, 
lettin’ Jimmie take these papers to the mission- 
ary now, would you?” 


Little People of the Dust 249 

Jimmie hopped with delight. 

“Mind? No, course not.” 

“Then there you are, little man” — He handed 
the papers to the boy — “an’ tell ’im I’ll be up to- 
morrow to see ’im and get an answer.” 

Jimmie was gone almost before the last words 
were out of his month. When the sound of his 
spry feet crunching the cinders had faded into 
silence. Black Peter turned to the woman beside 
him. 

“Mary,” he cried, holding out his arms, “it’s a 
little sudden, bein’ as — as somebody ain’t gone 
long, but I’ve been a- waitin’ longer, will you — 
will you be my wife if I asks you?” 

The woman hung her head, but a twinkle of 
her old self glinted in the eyes that looked side- 
ways up at him. 

“If I asks you?” he repeated. 

“There ain’t nothin’d make me happier, 
Peter,” she said at last with grave face and 
serious eyes. 

“An’ it ain’t been too long to wait, now has it, 
Mary?” he went on a little later, “There, there, 
I didn’t expect you’d cry. Lord, I never ex- 
pected you’d cry.” 

Father Gillin had no mind, after he had read 
the papers which Jimmie gave him, to await 
Black Peter’s coming on the following day. 

When he arrived at the confines of the desert 


250 Little People of the Dust 

a cold moon hung far down on the distant hori- 
zon, spreading a feeble yellow glow over its 
scene of desolation. Somewhere off to the left, 
the blue smoke of smoldering straw-heaps, for 
all the world like far-away volcanoes lying low 
on the distant horizon, waved slowly upward, 
filling the night air with acrid, penetrating 
fumes. 

The missionary paused and his eyes, accus- 
tomed as they were to looking out on the troubles 
of the world, took on a deepening shade as they 
swept the blighted acres and rested on the two 
little cottages that crouched dimly visible on the 
desert’s edge. He gazed at them long and 
thoughtfully, noting the air of dejection that 
possessed them, accentuated now by the pale 
light in which they stood and the curious atti- 
tude of solicitous regard which the old willow 
assumed as it bent, with long trailing limbs, im- 
partially over both. 

He turned his gaze with a sigh to the light of 
Black Peter’s fire that bloomed clear, across the 
great acreage of dust. It sparkled, died down, 
then shot up more vigorously than ever, and 
anon settled into an unsteady ruddy glow, around 
which the shadows lifted and fell in a strange 
dance of darkness and light. At the sight the 
gloom lifted from the face of the missionary; 
it apparently brought visions of happier days. 


Little People of the Dust 251 

for he advanced towards it with careful steps and 
much painstaking avoidance of the softer ash- 
dunes. 

The door of the tin-covered shack was open 
and as the missionary came into the circle of 
light that widened and contracted in perpetual 
warfare with the dark around the snapping fire, 
Black Peter passed out, head bent and an old 
battered frying-pan in his right hand. 

He paused as he caught the outline of an in- 
truding figure and his red eyes peered with keen 
scrutiny into the enveloping dark. 

The missionary advanced and had he looked 
back he must have laughed, for the short, 
stubby legs had grown long and lank in the 
shadow that trailed behind and in the rude cari- 
cature of the fire, wavered and wobbled as he 
walked in ludicrous mimicry. 

“So this is the way you beat the land-lady, is 
it?” exclaimed the missionary. 

Black Peter straightened up and at the same 
instant recognized the man before him. His 
dark face slowly broke into a smile. 

“I was never born for the inside. Father Gil- 
lin,” he remarked in answer. “I’d rather sit 
here by myself with the sky over me an’ munch 
my bite in peace, than feast at the finest table in 
America.” 

“It’s the primitive instinct that’s working in 


252 Little People of the Dust 

you, Peter,” rejoined the priest. “The desert 
has carried you back many centuries to the days 
when our ancestors lived just like this and 
thought nothing of it. But go on, man, with 
your meal and I’ll just sit down for a quiet chat 
with you.” 

So, while Black Peter squatted low before the 
fire and held the battered frying-pan in the blaze 
till the bacon within sputtered and crackled and 
lit itself now and then with a weird blue flame, 
the two talked of many things, but principally 
of the two tribes; of one who still inhabited the 
wide reaches of the desert and another who had 
been removed far from their influences. 

When the rude supper was over and the dishes 
washed and dried and laid away, all of which 
being done most expeditiously by swiftly knock- 
ing the inverted frying-pan against a paving 
stone, and when Black Peter’s thick lips had been 
wiped on his flannel sleeve and his old black pipe 
had been lit and firmly set in his yellow teeth, 
then the missionary produced the papers from 
his pocket and proceeded to broach the subject 
which had brought him into the desert’s depths. 

“Did you read these papers, Peter?” he 
asked as he tapped them with the backs of his 
fingers. 

“I did. Father, somewhat. They’re adoption 
papers, eh?” 


Little People of the Dust 253 

“They are,” said the priest, “and what do 
you think?” 

“It’d be good for her,” said Black Peter. 
“She’d be an heiress, wouldn’t she?” 

“She would, I guess, though that would de- 
pend somewhat.” 

“In any case she’d be taken care of?” 

“Yes, indeed,” said the priest. He handled 
the papers nervously. 

“And what do you think?” asked Black Peter. 

“It would be the grandest thing that could 
happen, Peter.” 

“Then come on into the shack. Father, an’ I’ll 
sign where you tell me.” 

The priest did not move. “I think, Peter,” he 
said with much hesitation, “that you do not 
understand all that is required.” 

Black Peter looked at him and there was si- 
lence between them for a moment. 

“Peter,” said the priest at last, “God forbid 
that I should pry into a man’s affairs, though in 
the exercise of my duty I have often found it 
necessary to do so. Now that little Millie is 
safely gone and into hands that are as loving and 
kind as any on earth could be, I want my heart 
set at ease on a point or two connected with her 
history. If I ask too much, as a man, tell me 
so and I’ll ask no more. What I ask will have 
to be answered in these papers before a legal 


254 Little People of the Dust 

adoption can be made. Are you the father of 
little Millie?” 

The laugh to which Black Peter gave vent 
was as disconcerting to the good priest as had 
been Mrs. Atkins’ laugh under a similar ques- 
tion. 

‘T am not, Father Gillin. Do you think such 
as me could ever be the father of such as her? I 
know I could not.” 

‘Ts Mrs. Atkins her mother, then?” 

Black Peter did not laugh this time, but sat 
very still gazing into the fire. After a while he 
turned slowly and looked into the priest’s eyes. 

‘Tf anyone else had asked me that question I 
would have told him that there’s certain matters 
best left alone.” 

‘T’m sorry,” began the priest, “there’s some 
secret here I don’t understand. 

“There is,” affirmed Black Peter, “but it is 
different cornin’ from you. You love the little 
girl an’ your lips would never betray her even if 
I told you all I know.” 

“God knows they would not,” answered the 
priest and a joy, so keen that it ran like pain 
through his heart, seized hold of him. 

“I had thought never to tell the story. Never, 
not even to Millie herself, for there’s no stain 
on the life of another jes’ like the stain 
that comes from bein’ born outside the law, an’ 


Little People of the Dust 255 

I thought to save her all this an’ never to handi- 
cap her life with it, but I don’t know. It might 
be as well for someone like you to know in case 
— in case the time ever came when the knowl- 
edge might be used for her good. Father Gil- 
lin, will you swear before God to keep what I 
am goin’ to tell you sacred in your heart, never 
to be mentioned except for her good?” 

‘'I will swear,” said the priest solemnly. 

- “You asked me if Mrs. Atkins is her mother. 
Her mother! Millie’s mother! May her bones 
lie here some day with the rest that the city re- 
fuses.” 

“God help us, Peter,” said the priest, “what 
kind of talk is that?” 

“May they rest here,” insisted the other, “jes’ 
as I say, wherever she is to-night.” 

“Wherever she is?” echoed the priest. 

“Ah, Father Gillin, for she’s not over there in 
the little house under the willow. Wherever 
she is I don’t know, but she must carry in her 
heart the memory of a terrible crime, if she’s 
human at all, which I doubt. Now listen. It’s 
nine years ago last May, the middle of the 
month sometime, I forget the exact day, when I 
come out o’ my shack. It was early morning, 
very early I remember, an’ cold an’ gray, an’ as 
I stood breathin’ in the fresh air as I always do, 
I saw old Billie, the crow, actin’ mighty queer 


256 Little People of the Dust 

over there near the great rock. He was flyin’ 
in the air a little an’ droppin’ down an’ cawin’ 
an’ flutterin’ on the ground like mad. I knew 
somethin’ was up ’cause I can tell Billie’s caw 
when he’s mad an’ I took a stout stick I always 
have handy, an’ ran over.” 

Black Peter stopped to poke the Are. 

“There was Billie,” he resumed, “a-flghtin’ six 
great, big rats an’ one o’ them had ’im by the 
leg an’ was holdin’ ’im so he couldn’t get at ’im 
with his beak. Two other rats was dead. Bil- 
lie killed ’em an’ one was dyin’. At first I 
didn’t rightly know what all the fuss was about, 
seein’ Billie always was flghtin’ somethin’ or 
other, but as I got nearer a-aimin’ to get in a 
lick when I could, I saw a bundle of clothes on 
the ground an’ one rat a-makin’ as though he 
was eatin’ somethin’. I made a run at that 
an’ laid out the rat holdin’ Billie an’ the others 
scooted off down the long ravine to the black 
pool. Billie went off, too, an’ I stood a-lookin’ 
down at that bundle o’ clothes. 

“It moved an’ then my blood froze as I heard a 
little cry come up as though somethin’ was suf- 
ferin’. Lord! It didn’t take me no time to get 
down on my hands an’ knees an’ untie that 
bundle.” 

He paused and seemed laboring in deep emo- 
tion. 


Little People of the Dust 257 

“And what do you think was in it?’’ 

“God help us!” cried the horrified priest. “I 
can only guess — Millie!” 

“Yes, Millie. Little Millie, hungry an’ 
bleedin’ an’ cold, but not so cold but I knew 
there was life in her. Ah, Father Gillin, how 
I ran, first to Jimmie’s house, but there was no 
one at home, then to Mrs. Atkins.” 

“God help us!” groaned the priest. “God 
help us!” 

“I banged on the door an’ she came runnin’ 
an’ I shoved the baby into her arms. I don’t 
know what I said, but she understood anyway ’an 
brought her back to life, an’ when Millie was 
well and strong, Mrs. Atkins, poor as she was, 
with scarcely a crust for the morrow, wanted to 
keep her as her own, but somethin’ in me kept 
sayin’, ‘She’s mine, she’s mine,’ Father, an’ the 
more I saw of the little dear as she grew, the 
more the somethin’ cried out an’ so I decided to 
keep her myself an’ I have. Every week I’ve 
carried the price of her keep to Mrs. Atkins an’ 
she, good woman, has let the world think what 
it liked an’ kept her tongue still for Millie’s 
sake.” 

The missionary had risen ; he stood with 
clenched hands, his eyes raised to the myriads 
of stars over-head and his lips moving as though 
in prayer ; then he turned and his hand stole over 


258 Little People of the Dust 

the bowed head of Black Peter in a solemn bene- 
diction. 

“ ‘As ye have done it unto the least of these my 
brethren, so have ye done it unto me.’ ” 

The priest’s words were slow spoken and his 
voice scarcely audible to the man below. 

“Ah, it was a small thing. Father, to do for 
her. She has paid me back in happiness many 
the time with her sweet ways but I never wanted 
her to know an’ I don’t want her to know now.” 

He raised his red eyes and they glistened with 
unshed tears. 

“In all the years of my service,” said the priest, 
looking down at him, “I have done no such 
Christian deed as yours. God help me!” 

“An’ you won’t tell her. Father Gillin. You 
won’t let her know, will you?” 

“Not now,” said the missionary, “but I’ll not 
promise for always. Not for always, by any 
means.” 

Black Peter poked the fire furiously. “It’ll 
be mighty lonesome here in the desert now that 
she’s gone, for me an’ — an’ the other tribe.” 

“It will,” said the priest, “but your sacrifice 
makes complete the circle of love.” 

He held down his hand and the man grasped it 
with both of his and clung to it as though for 
strength. 


Little People of the Dust 259 

A strange elation had sprung up in the priest’s 
heart, leaping like a flame till it shone brightly 
in his eyes, for in his soul had risen a great hope. 


CHAPrER XXIII 


HERE are times when the soul on the 



verge of a great joy hesitates and trem- 


- hies. So trembled Father Gillin’s spirit 
as a great truth dawned upon his mind. He 
seated himself ; his heart was throbbing and the 
veins in his neck looked swollen and large. 

“Tell me the date again, Peter,’’ he said. 
“Be sure, man, that you are right.” 

“It will be nine years ago last May, Father, 
sometime the middle of the month.” 

“Might it be the 17th?” 

“Very like it was,” answered Black Peter. 
“Somewhere I have it in black and white. But 
why do you ask?” 

The missionary was silent. His elation had 
died out and a strange battle was being fought 
in his soul. All doubt that little Millie was any 
other than Emily Hodges’ daughter had vanished 
from his mind and he felt impelled to proclaim 
the truth at once to the man before him, but the 
sacred character of John Hodges’ story rose be- 
fore him and his own promise sealed his lips. 
“Peter,” he said, rising, “I am going away for 


Little People of the Dust 261 

an hour. I want you to wait for me here, for I 
think I will have something very vital to say to 
you regarding little Millie, when I return.’’ 

Black Peter looked up curiously — surprised 
at this unexpected turn to the conversation. 

“Sure,” he exclaimed, “I’ll wait. Father.” 

The priest at once disappeared in the dark- 
ness. He skirted the desolate oasis and passed 
between the poles that had once supported the 
great tent. The Fountain of the Sun gleamed 
darkly on his left, then wrinkled suddenly as 
into it with a great splash the grandfather frog 
leaped. On under the gnarled, old apple tree 
the priest passed and saw the growing moon lift- 
ing her face over the jagged sky-line of the city 
beyond ; and, in time he came to the green-houses 
that lay low and glimmery in the heavy dusk. 

A light twinkled in the palm-house and 
through the panes of rain-spotted glass, the 
priest saw John Hodges bending over some 
newly bedded plants. As he entered, the old 
man looked up and when he! had recognized him 
rushed forward with a glad cry. 

“John Hodges,” said the missionary, when the 
first warm greeting was over, “I have come to 
have you absolve me from the promise of secrecy 
I made at the time you told me the story of 
your daughter’s great trouble.” 


262 Little People of the Dust 

The old man stepped back in astonishment. 
“Absolve you — you — you — want to tell it — to 
someone ?” 

He labored with the words as though stricken 
with great emotion. 

“Yes,” said the missionary, ‘T want to tell it 
to Black Peter;” he lifted his hand to stop the 
eager question he saw forming on the other’s 
lips. “Don’t ask why, my dear old friend,” he 
said quickly. “Rely on me, for nothing on this 
earth would give me greater pleasure than to do 
you a great service.” 

' J ohn Hodges stood with lowered head a 
second as though in deep thought, then he ex- 
tended his hand. “I do not understand your 
motive. Father, but I know it must be good. 
Tell him if you want to; but ask him, in God’s 
name, to reveal what you say to no other living 
soul.” 

The priest gripped the extended hand warmly 
and five minutes later was under the gnarled, 
old apple tree again on his way back to the 
campfire which had been revived and was crack- 
ling merrily. 

“Peter,” he said, re-entering the circle of ruddy 
light, “unworthy as I am, I have been made the 
instrument of God’s love. Little Millie is with- 
out doubt, John Hodges’ grand-daughter.” 

The man sprang to his feet, but the priest un- 


Little People of the Dust 263 

heeding his excitement went on with the story 
John Hodges had told him. 

As he did so, Black Peter walked slowly back 
and forth, though not once did he interrupt the 
narrative by either word or sign. 

‘‘And now,” finished the missionary, “you 
know why I left a few moments ago. I went to 
get John Hodges’ permission to tell you what 
you have heard. There is no doubt in my mind 
but what little Millie is Emily Hodges’ daughter 
but we must be sure before we raise such hopes 
in an old man’s heart. Sure, sure, for if they 
were proven false I know the shock would be 
the death of him.” 

Black Peter sat down and buried his head in 
his hands. His strange silence through the 
whole recital had mystified and alarmed the 
priest. Now he went over and laid his hand on 
his shoulder. 

“Come, man, have you nothing to say?” 

“Oh, Father,” he cried, raising his head, “can 
there be any forgiveness for one such as me, for 
keepin’ the thing still all these years?” 

“Forgiveness?” echoed the priest, “why, 
Peter, man, how could you know but she was 
only another of the unwanted ones. Look up, 
man! When John Hodges hears the news there 
won’t be anything on this wide earth too good 
for you.” 


264 Little People of the Dust 

“You think so?” asked Black Peter. 

“I know it,” said the priest. “I’d stake my 
immortal soul on it.” 

The man rose. “Now come with me,” he 
said and he led the way into his disordered hut, 
took a grimy candle from a shelf, lit it and 
handed it to the priest. 

“Hold that,” he ordered. “It’ll be a long 
hunt, I’m afraid, but somewhere down there in 
that old iron box, I have the little clothes Mil- 
lie wore when I found her, all hand stitched, 
Mrs. Atkins said, an’ showin’ unusual refine- 
ment.” 

“Just the thing! Just the thing,” said the 
priest and his hand trembled till the shadows of 
the bottles that thrust their long necks in- 
quisitively out of the huddled barrels, danced 
dizzily in their eff orts to avoid the light. 

It was a longer search than even Black Peter 
anticipated, for the accumulations of nine years 
lay over the resting place of the old iron box. 
At last, however, after everything in the long 
shack had been turned upside down and the im- 
maculate long coat of the priest had become un- 
recognizable with dust and dirt, it was found, all 
black and battered, as it was. Black Peter 
dusted it carefully with a grain sack and inserted 
a rusty key which he took down from a nail over 
the door. 


Little People of the Dust 265 

He drew forth first a long-corded cape, once 
white, no doubt, but now yellow with age and 
darkness, and held it up, and the priest dis- 
tinctly saw the rents in its left side made by 
the teeth of the voracious rats. Next came a 
shawl of some fleecy material, then a pair of small 
white socks, with an ugly red spot stiffening one 
of them. 

“That,” said the priest, “we had better de- 
stroy,” and he crumpled the little article in his 
hand and thrust it into his side pocket. 

“That’s all,” said Black Peter. “It ought to 
be enough.” 

“And now,” said the priest, “let’s go, both of 
us, to John Hodges and have the thing over 
with.” 

When they emerged from the shack the fire 
had burned itself out; the desert was still, save 
for the hoarse croaking of the frogs in the black 
pool. As they came to the oasis, both stopped 
in amazement. The moon had risen, a glorious 
yellow now, and from where they stood, hung 
like a great fruit amid the branehes of the 
gnarled, old apple tree, and Billie, as though 
placed by the hand of some all-knowing spirit 
of the night, sat a silhouette in solid black di- 
rectly before its glowing face. 

“God bless him!” said the missionary. “He 
sleeps in peace.” 


266 Little People of the Dust 

When they reached the green-houses, the light 
had vanished from the palm-room. 

The missionary paused a moment before pull- 
ing the bell-knob of the house that stood nearby. 
As he expected, his old friend opened the door 
and watched their entry with agitated face. He 
was conscious that some matter of great im- 
portance was being carried forward around him, 
but as yet only the faintest glimmer of suspi- 
cion regarding its character had entered his 
mind. 

“Now, John Hodges,” said the priest, “we 
don’t want to see you at all. No, sir, for once, 
my old friend, I don’t want to see your face 
for the space of fifteen whole minutes.” He 
laughed cheerily in his endeavor to relieve the 
tension under which they all labored. “We 
want to see your daughter, your Emily.” 

Without a word John Hodges disappeared, 
and a moment later his daughter entered the 
room. 

Father Gillin advanced to meet her and took 
both her hands in his. “My dear child,” he said 
kindly, “Peter and I have come on an errand 
of grave importance. Are you strong to hear 
words of truth from my lips, words which must 
bring a great undreamed-of joy into your days?” 

The woman’s eyes faltered. “Let us sit down. 
Father,” she said weakly. 


Little People of the Dust 267 

The priest drew his chair close in front of hers 
and, still holding her hands, went on: 

‘Tt concerns little Millie.” 

A radiant hope lit the delicate features of the 
woman and her hands trembled in his. 

‘T have information, quite true, I assure you, 
that convinces me she is — she is — There, there ! 
Peter! Peter! Quick, man! Get water! Get 
water!” 

Five minutes later Emily Hodges recovered. 
She was weak and very pale, but a glorious smile 
played over the parted lips. 

“There, there!” said the priest, in a low voice. 
“Sit up now and let us show you the proof we 
hold, Peter and I.” 

As quickly as it had fled, the strength came 
back into the heart of Emily Hodges. A buoy- 
ancy of hope and love and the certainty of great 
joy in the recovery of her child acted like a won- 
derful tonic on her soul. 

She listened all through the narrative of the 
priest, breaking into it only to cry gently now 
and then or utter a broken exclamation of grati- 
tude to the dark man who sat transformed with 
smiles beside her. She lingered over the little 
articles of dress, tenderly kissing each in turn, 
recognizing each with broken words. “Oh, I’m 
too happy to speak,” she cried, as she rose. 
“Dear old father.” 


268 Little People of the Dust 

‘‘Be careful, my dear,’' cautioned the priest, 
as she moved towards the door in her eager haste 
to carry the tidings of great joy. She ran 
lightly back and, in complete gratitude, threw 
her arms around the neck of each in turn. 

“Oh, my good, good friends! Wait for us! 
Wait for us here, and don’t you worry, you lov- 
ing old friend,” she cried back to the priest. “I 
know just how to tell father,” and she laughed 
happily again and was gone. 

Black Peter and the priest sat in silence long 
minutes waiting; suddenly a man’s figure ap- 
peared in the door behind therrt. It was white- 
haired and stooped a little, but in the beam of 
the eyes and the smile on the wrinkled face. Fa- 
ther Gillin knew that John Hodges had thrown 
off his years. 


CHAPrER XXIV. 


ITH little Millie had gone the dream 
and the glory of the desert. 



^ ^ Black Peter stood in the door of his 
shack and watched Jimmie, far across the acres, 
huddled over a heap of cinders, slowly filling his 
battered scuttle. The sight seemed to awaken 
him from his revery, for he started and, placing 
his fingers to his lips, blew a shrill blast to at- 
tract the youngster’s attention. 

Jimmie looked up and the man beckoned. 
There was a curious tender curve on the thick 
lips and the inflamed eyes grew mild behind the 
narrow openings of their lids as the boy ap- 
proached. 

“Who told you to pick that coal, Jimmie?” he 
asked, lifting him in his arms. “Your mother?” 

Jimmie shook his head. “Nope. Mother 
never, but I got to do it.” 

''Got to do it, eh? Who said you got to do 
it?” 

“Ain’t I always done it?” 

“You have, Jimmie,” said the man, “but that 
ain’t no sign you’re always goin’ to do it. No, 
sir. Now look here, I’m a-goin’ to tell you a 


270 Little People of the Dust 

great big secret two of ’em, if you’ll promise 

never to tell Billie.” 

Black Peter laughed at the bewildered look 
in the boy’s eyes. 

“You see me’n Billie’s been old batches be- 
longin’ to the same club an’ if he knowed what 
I’m a-goin’ to do, landsakes! I believe he’d cut 
up somethin’ awful.” 

“What’d he do?” asked Jimmie, with an 
amused grin. 

“Do? Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d 
go right off ’n get married himself. Get a lady 
crow an’ bring her back an’ go to housekeepin’.” 

Jimmie laughed. 

“Now here’s what I want to tell you. That 
you ain’t a-goin’ to pick coal no more. Never 
mind the ‘whys’ of it. You’re goin’ to have coal 
come to the house in a big red wagon like John 
Hodges an’ you’re goin’ to kick that old scuttle 
clear into the black pool, where it’ll be found a 
hundred thousand years from now by some o’ 
them stone-fellers.” 

Jimmie’s eyes sparkled. 

“And now listen again. You’re goin’ to be 
my boy,” he gave him a hug to emphasize his 
words, “my own little Jimmie, for your ma’n me 
are goin’ to git married.” 

“You’re goin’ to live with us?” Jimmie 
squirmed with delight. “Golly, ma’ll be glad.” 


Little People of the Dust 271 

Any further conversation was cut short by the 
appearance of John Hodges. He was marvel- 
ously changed, for he was dressed in his best 
black suit, with his shoes shined and a white 
stand-up collar on, looking every inch the re- 
fined old gentleman that he was. 

Black Peter set Jimmie down and advanced 
to greet him. They shook hands warmly. 

“You look as though you were goin’ some- 
wheres, Mr. Hodges.” 

“I am,” said the other. “Emily and I leave 
on the ten-forty train for Denver, where Millie 
now is. IVe brought over a couple of papers 
for you to sign, Peter. This one is a statement 
of the exact facts concerning the finding of little 
Millie, and this one is a power of attorney 
authorizing me to act as your agent if it should 
be necessary, although I think I’ll have no trou- 
ble whatever in getting hold of the child.” 

“Sure,” said Black Peter, “come in.” 

“It won’t be necessary,” said Mr. Hodges. 
“Use this.” And he handed him a gold-banded 
fountain-pen. 

Black Peter signed in a scrawly, scarcely leg- 
ible fashion and handed the paper back to the 
other. 

“Have you seen the missionary?” asked John 
Hodges. “He was to be here.” 

They both looked around and there, sure 


272 Little People of the Dust 

enough, they saw him hurrying carefully over 
the uneven ground. 

When he came up he was out of breath and 
sat down on a big tin can, hands on knees, to 
recover himself. 

“Bless me!” he cried, at length. “Here I am, 
what’s left of me.” 

Mr. Hodges regarded him with a kindly smile. 

“Have — you — spoken to Peter yet, John 
Hodges?” 

“No,” said the other, “except to have him sign 
these papers.” 

“Well,” said the priest, “when are you going 
to be married, Peter?” 

Black Peter started. “It ain’t set yet. Fa- 
ther,” he answered, with a bashful laugh. 

“But you’re going to be married. Well, now, 
John Hodges and I have had a long talk about 
you and we both are agreed that the sooner this 
marrying business is over the better.” 

Black Peter was puzzled. 

“You see,” went on the priest, raising his 
hand, “there’s the green-house must be attended 
to and the orchids, my special luxury, must be 
sprinkled and weeded. Do you weed orchids, 
John Hodges? No? Well then, pruned, 
maybe. Anyway, there’re a thousand and one 
things must be done by an able-bodied man like 
— like you, Peter.” 


Little People of the Dust 273 

“But, I don’t see — ” began Black Peter. 

“How that affects marrying?” Father Gil- 
lin rose with a hearty laugh and clapped the 
other on the shoulder. 

“You see, Peter, John Hodges is going away 
and of course he can’t take the green-house with 
him, so he wants you to take care of the green- 
house, and Jimmie’s mother to take care of you, 
and you both with little Jimmie to live where he 
lives now and be very, very happy.” 

Black Peter was bewildered and looked first 
at one and then at the other. 

“And he offers you a very handsome salary 
for your services, and he’s so afraid you won’t 
accept that he’s bribed me to use my influence in 
his behalf.” 

“But — but,” said Black Peter, “what do I 
know about fliowers an’ weeding orchids an’ 
such?” 

“You’ll learn, Peter,” said John Hodges 
quickly, “and I’ve a man coming to show you, 
and he’ll stay as long as you like.” 

“And you want us to live in your house?” 

“I’d be honored, my dear Peter, and it’ll be a 
long time you’ll live there, because Emily and I 
are going away into the real desert beyond the 
mountains, where the air is sweet and pure and 
good for little lungs.” 

Suddenly Peter sat down and covered his face 


274 Little People of the Dust 

with his hands. “I don’t deserve it,” he cried. 
“I never had nothin’ an’ it seems too good.” 

“You’ll take it, then?” said the priest. 
“Good!” 

“I’ll take it gladly,” said Black Peter, “for 
Jimmie’s mother an’ little Jimmie. It’ll give me 
the chance to send Jimmie on an’ make a man 
of him, such as nobody need be ashamed of.” 

“And this is a very good place for me to say,” 
said the priest, “that I’ve a nice little check for 
five hundred dollars which I’ll give you at once 
to provide for that very sending on.” 

“A check?” said Black Peter. 

“Yes. Mrs. Perkins’ check. The reward she 
offered for the necklace.” 

So it was all arranged, and John Hodges and 
the missionary departed. 

“And by the way,” called back Mr. Hodges, 
“give Billie a fine piece of meat every day. Let 
Jimmie do it, for he’s earned it if ever a crow 
did.” And the two of them stopped long un- 
der the gnarled, old apple tree and looked up 
at the huge bird, much to his annoyance and 
disgust. 

When they had gone Black Peter disappeared 
in his shack and returned with a fancy sugar- 
coated cake. “I thought you’d like one,” he said, 
smiling, “and while you’re eatin’ it we’ll finish 
our secrets.” 


Little People of the Dust 275 

But Jimmie ate it very gingerly. ‘‘If you 
just let it stay in your mouth an’ don’t swaller 
it,” he explained, in answer to Black Peter’s 
urgings, “it’s just the same as havin’ all you 
want.” 

“And we’re goin’ to live in Mr. Hodges’ 
house,” said Black Peter, as he finished the long 
explanation he felt due, “your mother an’ me; 
an’ you’re a-goin’ to high school an’ then to col- 
lege an’ some time you’ll be a great man.” 

“An’ when I get to be a great man, do you 
think Millie’ll marry me?” 

“I think she will,” said the other, hiding a 
smile; “at least, if she’s wise she will, ’cause 
there’s good stuff in you, my boy. And now,” 
he said, rising, “you can begin kickin’ that old 
coal-scuttle clear into the black pool.” 

“But there’s coal in it.” 

“Dump it out!” said Black Peter. 

And Jimmie wondered, but literally obeyed 
and watched with satisfaction the scuttle careen 
this way and that and then blubber piteously 
as it sank into the black depths. 

In a vague way he realized that with its pass- 
ing had gone a period in his life that was full 
of remembered shadows, yet, with the queer per- 
versity of human nature in such circumstances, 
his little heart dwelt on the happiness he had 
known and forgot much of the misery, and, in 


276 Little People of the Dust 

spite of the sugar-coated cake in his hand, his lit- 
tle heart was sad. He had come out of his 
dream country and as he looked back the dreams 
were sweet. He couldn’t stop a tiny tear that 
slid out of his eye upon his cheek, thence down 
upon his lifting hand. And the shadow in his 
heart seemed over the desert, too, for the sky 
was gray and thoughtful. 

He paused by the Fountain of the Sun on 
his way home and sat looking down into its clear 
depths. He sat so still that the old frog, in 
whose mind even then was the thought of his 
long winter’s sleep in the warm sand below, 
floated leisurely to the surface and winked at 
him slowly and expanded his yellow-green 
throat. 

Gray shadows darkened the pool and the frog 
sank head-long to the bottom with two sturdy 
pushes of his hind legs. The air became rhyth- 
mic with soft wings as the pigeons in search of 
crumbs, which had grown scarce since Millie’s 
departure, settled all around him. They cooed 
and lifted their pink feet and arched their heads 
and wondered with round eyes upturned. Jim- 
mie very gingerly broke off a few crumbs from 
his precious cake and scattered them about. 
Suddenly, as though on one wing, they rose and 
wheeled away, and Billie, as sedate and reflect- 
ive as ever, settled almost at his feet. 


Little People of the Dust 277 

Jimmie looked first at the bird and then at the 
white-frosted cake in his hand. “It wasn’t as 
hig as this,” he said slowly, as though answering 
some argument of the crow’s. “No, it wasn’t.” 
His eyes examined the cake again and he licked 
his lips slowly. “There,” he said suddenly, as 
he threw the delicacy at the crow’s feet, “you 
can’t never say I didn’t give it back, anyway.” 


CHAPrER XXV 


N early a year. The desert had gath- 
ered its myriad life close to its warm 
heart — its weeds, its flowers, its crick- 
ets, and the grandfather frog in the Fountain 
of the Sun, and the pouchy-eyed toad under the 
cleft rock — and had nourished each in its own, 
motherly way against sleet and snow and biting 
winds. 

Billie, alone, save when the gray rats moved 
in the night, remained to remind the world of 
those other days that had happily gone by. 

And the spring had come again with all its 
opening wonders, its transformations, its resur- 
rections, and the great frog chorus in the black 
pool was swelled by new tenors and not a few 
profound basses, the latter singing with an air 
of high superiority and perfect peace of mind. 

The violets under the gnarled, old apple tree 
looked out on the waste with new blue eyes and 
new wonder, and the kernels of corn grew where 
they found themselves with as great abandon 
and as little heed as had their cousins of the year 
before. 

The summer came and with it the whisper of 
^ 278 


Little People of the Dust 279 

an approaching event. Millie was coming back; 
only for a week, it is true, but for a week, and 
great were the preparations therefor. Of course 
letters had come now and then from the desert 
the other side of the great peaks; letters so full 
of hope and cheer and returning health that they 
brought smiles, and tears sometimes, when Black 
Peter read them at the evening meal. But now 
she was coming and with her, in the heart of the 
little boy, seemed to return the glories of his 
vanished dream. 

'‘Do you think,” he questioned eagerly, for the 
seventieth time, “she’ll remember me?” 

“Remember you? Why not?” 

“And do you think she’ll notice that my hands 
is clean now an’ not full of cinders like they 
was?” 

“Trust her for that,” said Black Peter. “The 
women are great for spottin’ such things as them. 
Didn’t Miss Evans notice them now?” 

Jimmie nodded his head. “She said she was 
so glad an’ she hoped I’d alius keep ’em like this.” 

“Well now, there ain’t no harm in dirty hands, 
Jimmie,” said the man, “if it’s honest dirt. Jes’ 
look here,” and he held out his broad-palmed 
hands, both black and gloved with rich loam. 
“How’s them for dirt?” 

“But you’re workin’,” said the boy. 

“Ezactly,” answered Black Peter, “an’ I 


28 o Little People of the Dust 

don’t want no teacher, whoever she be, to go 
tellin’ you it ain’t nice to get your hands dirty 
when you need to. It’s keepin’ your soul clean 
counts, Jimmie. There, ask Father Gillin if 
’tain’t.” 

The missionary had just come round the end 
of the palm-house. 

“Well, well, here you are,” he cried jovially, 
as he came up to them. “What’s this Mrs. Don- 
lin has been telling me about little Millie’s re- 
turn?” 

“She’s cornin’ sure. Father,” said Black Peter. 

The priest’s eyes fell on the long row of scar- 
let poppies just bursting into bloom over which 
his friend was working. “What’s this you have 
there, Peter?” 

“Poppies,” said Peter. 

“But I never heard of potting poppies 
before.” 

Black Peter looked up and gave him a sly 
wink, then turned to the boy. “I say, Jimmie,” 
he said, “go get me that hoe that I left against 
the door of the boiler-room.” 

As the youngster disappeared, the two heads 
of the men came very close together and they 
whispered confidentially, the old missionary 
laughing and slapping his thighs. 

“It’ll be great,” he cried. “Who’d ever think 
of such a thing but you? Ha! Ha! I’ll be 


Little People of the Dust 281 

with you if it kills me. Ill — ” He suddenly 
broke oif short in his speech as Jimmie came 
bounding back with the hoe, and the serious eye 
he bent on the upturned little face gave no hint 
of its previous .merriment. 

Father Gillin stayed to supper, as he often did 
and, after a peace-pipe had been smoked, the 
two men retired to the vicinity of the palm-house 
again. They loaded the potted poppies on a 
barrow and went off in the direction of the des- 
ert. The moon was shining and, as they came 
out under the gnarled, old apple tree, the priest 
stopped in amazement. 

‘‘Sure, Peter,” he cried, “you’ve been there 
already.” 

“Jes’ a tap,” said Peter. “I thought I’d put 
the tent up while it was light and clear out the 
spring and spade up the oasis a little.” 

“You’ve a kind heart, Peter, a kind heart.” 

“It’s nothin’ but play,” said the other, “for do 
you know, though they were very bitter, I love 
those old days. There was a dream in them.” 

“There was,” said the priest, “a dream in 
them — little Millie.” 

“And to think,” answered Black Peter, “she’ll 
be back to-morrow before noon.” 

“And John Hodges,” said the priest, with 
softening voice, “my dear old friend, J ohn 
Hodges.” 


282 Little People of the Dust 

They trundled the barrow up to the oasis, in- 
spected the tent which flapped its sides idly in 
the breeze, and then set to work planting the 
poppies in a flaming ring around the rock. Two 
palms they set in the cleft and then withdrew 
to admire their work. 

‘Tt looks as though it had never been touched, 
Father,” jsaid Black Peter. 

“It does, and where did you put the wonderful 
book?” 

“In the tent there where they’ll see it.” 

They walked slowly away and had hardly 
reached the confines of the desert when a strange 
voice sounded behind them. “Why don’t you 
go home?” it said, in deep guttural bass. “Why 
don’t you go home?” 

The men looked at each other and laughed. 

“He’s still there, as though waitin’ for ’em,” 
said Black Peter. 

The morning dawned and Millie came, and 
John Hodges and his beautiful daughter, in 
whose eyes was the serenity of peace, and 
great was the joy in the vicinity of the green- 
houses. 

The little girl was a vision beautiful to eyes 
that had seen her a year before. Her cheeks 
very rosy with real health roses now and she 
walked and ran with the springy step of buoyant 
vigorous youth. 


Little People of the Dust 283 

“It’s what the real desert done for her,” said 
Black Peter, as he followed her movemjents with 
swelling heart. “God bless her. She’s the pic- 
ture of health!” 

And Jimmie couldn’t see enough of her. 
He followed her on foot wherever she went, and 
when his feet had carried him as far as they could 
he followed her with his eyes. 

Once he sidled up to Black Peter and held out 
his hands. “She noticed ’em,” he crowed. “She 
noticed ’em first thing an’ she kissed me on the 
cheek.” 

“Don’t you think,” said the missionary, “that 
it would be nice to see the old desert again. The 
Beaver Creek desert, I mean?” 

Millie danced with joy. 

“Run along then,” said Black Peter, “an’ be 
sure to be back for dinner, for there’s chicken 
an’ apple pie an’,” he leaned over impressively 
and whispered, “ice-cream.” 

The two were gone in a flash, and three older 
and slower figures followed in their tracks, dodg- 
ing like fond Indians behind fences and clumps 
of bushes to where, all unobserved, they could 
see the effect of the re-created desert. 

“There’s Billie,” cried the little girl. “Hello, 
Billie! Good old Billie!” and Billie turned 
sharply around on his polished perch and looked 
the two over with serious, beady eyes. 


284 " Little People of the Dust 

“Why,” cried Jimmie, “look there! An’ 
there, an’ there.” 

‘^Poppies,” cried Millie. “Where’d he get 
’em?” 

Sure enough the old tree had renewed a won- 
drous youth, or perhaps it dreamed, for every 
twig held a beautiful scarlet blossom. 

“Ain’t it pretty?” cried Millie. 

“Yes,” said Jimmie seriously, “but someone’ll 
be awful mad.” 

Their wonder over, they passed on. There 
was the tent and, of all things, the wonderful 
book and the Fountain of the Sun. For an hour 
they dreamed dreams and read, then rose with 
a sigh to go back the way they had come. 

“An’ you won’t never forget, Millie?” 

Little as she was, she hung her golden head. 

“I couldn’t,” she said. 

“An’ some time,” he went on, “when I grow 
way up like Black Peter an’ you’re way up like 
your mother. I’ll go wherever you are, ’cause I’ll 
have lots an’ lots of money an’ we’ll be married.” 

“It’s private,” whispered Black Peter, behind 
the tent, to the squatting figure of the mission- 
ary. 

“God bless us! John Hodges, did you hear 
what he said?” 

“I did, Father,” said John Hodges. “May 
you live to celebrate the wedding yourself.” 

THE END 


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